


Towers of Gold

by FISHnibWana



Series: You Run With Me [4]
Category: The Greatest Showman (2017)
Genre: Basically the World Caves in But This is One BAMF Found Family Guys, Carwheeler!, Charity Barnum Isn't Perfect But She is Some Kind of Angel Queen, Depression, F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I Love Writing Massive Missing Scenes Way Too Much, P.T. Barnum is Ultimately a Haunted Man, Past Stillbirth, Phillip Learns a New Circus Skill, Rape Aftermath, Sick Character, There Are Also Major Circus Family Feels!, Wow This Sounds Heavy But Never Fear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-02
Updated: 2019-11-19
Packaged: 2020-08-19 16:35:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 39,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20212879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FISHnibWana/pseuds/FISHnibWana
Summary: The higher they rise, the harder they fall. When P.T. Barnum falls, he impacts like a meteor.The good news is, there's nowhere to go but up.Part 4 in the "You Run With Me" Series, a Barnum/Carlyle friendship arc. Set after the Oddities visit the Queen.





	1. Prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which life is cruel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I finally had to break down and start this story, which has been tenuously in the works for a while. I hope you enjoy this! (You could probably read it on its own, but do keep in mind it's part of a series.)
> 
> Warning: Tragedy ahead.

The final expulsion comes with a cry.

A cry, and then silence.

“A frequent occurrence, in these conditions.” The doctor takes Charity’s pulse to the _tick tick _of his gold pocket-watch. “Be grateful the mother survived.”

The impoverished tenement is dark but for the glow of a single lantern. Phineas lifts his boy first, a perfect fit in his large hand. He kisses the little furrowed brow, the tiny parted lips, the sparse dark hair and the limp little feet. “I love you,” he whispers hoarsely. “Where did you go so fast?”

Then he kisses the girl, identical to her brother in every other way. The eyes that will not open, the mouth that will not laugh, are puckered and still. “Darling,” he manages, and then can’t go on. He weeps quietly as Charity breathes shallowly, in and out, on the bed.

“Bury them in a pauper's grave.” The doctor lays Charity’s wrist back down at her sunken side. She’s not sleeping; she’s staring with glazed eyes at her husband and two children. “That will be the cheapest option.”

“They will be buried properly, like Halletts.” Benjamin Hallett speaks up from the doorway, his lips tight and pale. He looks horrifically, mentally unkempt, like a man who has just witnessed a murder. “That is the only dignity they will ever be afforded.”

“I would give them everything if I could.” Tears drip uselessly off the end of Phineas’ nose. “You know I would.”

“What I know is that you dragged my only daughter into this godforsaken tenement and then forced her to give birth in squalor. You might as well have cut their throats.”

Phineas curls over the stillborn infants. “Father,” Charity whispers, her words as glazed as her eyes. “Please. Not in front of the children.”

Hannah Hallett makes a broken cooing sound and strokes Charity’s damp hair. “It will be all right, dear,” she whispers. “You’ll have other children, and you’ll forget these ones.”

“These are my children.” Charity barely even blinks; her skin is sweat-slicked and white. “Phineas, let me see them.”

“No, dear.” Alarmed, Hannah looks to the doctor. “Tell her, sir – it’s not good for her.”

“No, indeed.” The doctor motions to the young woman keeping vigil nearby, and she hesitantly comes forward. “Attachment shouldn’t be encouraged. The nurse will take them away.”

“Phineas,” Charity says, her arm twitching. “Please.”

“Leave her alone.” Phineas speaks hoarsely against the slick crowns of his children. “It’s her right.”

“I tell you, it’s not wise to…”

“You’re not needed anymore. You delivered my dead children, now you can leave.” With those words Phineas kneels at the bedside, gently lowering the tiny bodies to Charity’s breasts. “Here they are, Chairy,” he whispers. “They’re all yours.”

The doctor leaves after a few moments, taking the nurse with him. Charity’s parents also leave, but Phineas can hear their murmurs outside the door. “I’m sorry, Phin,” Charity murmurs after a minute, her thumb limply stroking the boy’s miniscule cowlick. “I did my best.”

“It’s not your fault.” Phineas kisses the back of her clammy hand, his knees digging into the creaking floorboards. “Heaven was a better place for them, that’s all.”

“But everything was perfect here. We had everything they needed.”

Phineas buries his face in the stained comforter to silence his groan. Everything they needed. A rickety crib, salvaged from an alley. A few threadbare blankets and scraps of clothing, just enough for one baby, not two. The milk in Charity’s swollen and aching breasts, the only provision they have in abundance – and that only because Phineas has been giving her the lion’s share of their meals. They are twenty-six and they have two dead children in their first year of marriage.

In this moment, exhausted, hungry, grief-stricken, Phineas doesn’t think he will ever make love to her again.

“You are the cause of this.” Benjamin Hallett’s voice is soft behind him as Charity slips into uneasy slumber. “You and your dreams. You damn fool – did you think you would live a fairy tale?”

Phineas’ shoulders twitch harshly. “I tried,” he cries, his voice muffled in the comforter, his hand clutching the hem of Charity’s nightdress. “I did my best.”

“Look at what lies in her arms. Your best killed them.”

Phineas bites down on the ruined fabric to stifle a scream. “I will not watch you ruin my daughter.” Benjamin’s words are cold and hard like hail. “If you’re the kind of man who would tear a family apart, then keep her here with you. No doubt the next time will kill her.”

Phineas grips at the back of his head until his scalp groans.

“When she wakes, tell her that her mother and I will not see her as long as she keeps your company. If not for my money you couldn’t have afforded even a midwife. Without the doctor I provided she would be dead.”

“You can’t abandon your own daughter.”

“You leave me no choice. If by some miracle you father a living baby I will not see it while it bears your name. This tragedy is God’s judgement on you. Learn from it.”

At the door Benjamin’s footsteps pause. “All those dreams, and still just the tailor’s boy,” is the last thing he says, but it lingers like the condemning stink of afterbirth.

The door closes, and Phineas howls his grief into the muffling blanket.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who don't already know the drill, I update weekly on Mondays. Next chapter up sometime this Monday Sept. 2!
> 
> Title taken from the song "Never Enough": "Towers of gold are still too little/These hands could hold the world but it'll/Never be enough..."


	2. Chapter One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which New York should probably brace itself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the lovely comments and kudos that have already been left on this story! I've missed you guys. :D Enjoy!

“Sir, your paper! It’s…”

The horrified ship steward turns heads, but Barnum doesn’t even look up. “Relax, my good man,” he says as his pen scratches across the page. “That won’t be long coming back.”

Sure enough, despite the rolling ship deck undersized footsteps quickly thunder back. “Here you are, mister!” the boy expels almost frantically, thrusting out the page out for Barnum’s scrutiny. His eyes are as wide as sand dollars. “It almost went _over_ that time!”

Barnum smiles and takes the paper. “Well done, my lad,” he says, producing a silvery coin from his pocket. “Keep a sharp eye out, this wind is brisk.”

The boy immediately resumes his position on a nearby barrel, his gaze hawkish. His mother is nearby, a frilly society dame engrossed in the gossip of her friends. A coltish son with no friends is hardly the accessory she wants. Barnum has promised the boy a nickel for every escaped paper he retrieves. So far the lad has pulled in twenty cents. Not bad for an hour’s work. He should have been so lucky when _he_ was ten.

They’re both a bit bored, perhaps.

“Hey, P.T.” Barnum feels a hand descend on his shoulder, familiar and welcome, and then quickly lift away. _I’m not a hot stove, Phillip; I won’t burn you._ “What are you doing?”

“Planning.”

“To do what? Impoverish us?”

“Smartass.” Barnum flicks a roguish grin at the boy, who covers his shocked giggles with both hands. “And what have _you_ been doing all morning? Shovelling coal belowdecks?”

“I leave all the shovelling to you, P.T.” Phillip sits across from him primly, and Barnum has to curb his urge to kick him in the shin. His apprentice is still perfecting the fine art of physical banter; better not to bruise him too thoroughly. “What’s with the boy?” Phillip adds in a lower voice.

“Bird-dog.”

“What?”

Barnum lifts his wrist and a paper flutters off in the cheerful breeze. Instantly the boy is off, arms and legs pumping like pistons. “Is that really wise?” Phillip asks, his brows slashing a frown across his forehead.

Barnum smiles and shows him the pile of meandering sketches and trivial jottings he keeps handy for the purpose. The important papers are clamped firmly under his elbow, struggling vainly in the wind.

As the boy comes racing back, a high flush on his cheeks, Barnum digs in his pocket for a nickel. “Good work, kid,” he says. “I’m all out of change, but come back tomorrow and you’ll get more.”

“Thanks, mister,” the boy beams, jingling the coins together in his hand. He dances off to show his mother, his spindly legs weaving in and around meandering guests.

“He’ll be a tall drink of water.” Barnum bends over his papers again, enjoying the feel of the wind ruffling his hair. _Still thick, thank God._ “Broad in the shoulders, too, by the looks of him.”

“Where are you getting _broad?_” Phillip laughs. “You could thread a needle with that kid.”

“Or me, at that age. Tie a knot, too, if you wanted.” Barnum cocks an eye at Phillip. “You, on the other hand, were probably – not chunky, but I’m thinking _solid_. Like one of those little Shetland ponies.”

“_Excuse_ me?”

“Short and sturdy,” Barnum says wickedly. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

The reluctant grin on Phillip’s face is entirely satisfying. “I’d rather tell you you’re bad at finances,” he retorts, tugging at the papers under Barnum’s elbow. Barnum allows the theft. “But I think it’s more a case of responsibility fatigue.”

“Numbers have no imagination.”

“You want one plus one to equal three, is that it?”

“Is that too much to ask?”

“Not if you’re trying to have a baby.” Phillip peruses the statements in his hand. He has to squint against the sun-dazzled page. “But math is rarely so accommodating.”

After a moment he looks up. “Miss Lind is an expensive passenger,” he notes.

Barnum treats Phillip to a quick look over his spectacles. He knows Phillip is smarter than he is; there’s something oddly rewarding about parading that fact. But for all his brains, his apprentice has yet to grasp the true meaning of the word _investment_. “I know what I’m doing,” is all Barnum says.

“I didn’t say otherwise.” Nevertheless, Phillip’s brows quirk once more before he relinquishes the papers. “I spoke to the captain, and he says we’ll pull into New York early Monday morning.”

“Excellent.”

“It’s going to be crazy once we dock.”

“Phillip.” The warning is light but real. “Down.”

“I’m just cautioning you. You’ve scheduled her concert for two days after we land – a proposition I recall designating _insane._ Then we have the circus shows to reboot, and on top of that it’s going to be bedlam at the docks. Jenny Lind landing in New York is headline news. And when you consider…”

“You know what, you’re right.” Barnum slides a blank piece of paper over to him. “You should write me a letter of complaint. Do it, right now, before you lose your train of thought.”

Phillip gives him a dirty look, but because he’s Phillip it comes out only mildly smudged. “I’m not questioning your vision,” he says. “It could use some focusing, that’s all.”

“That’s why I have spectacles,” Barnum snips, applying his pencil rubber to the page.

“Actually, that’s why you have me,” Phillip says quietly.

Barnum looks up, his curls dancing across his forehead. Phillip’s hair is similarly undone by the wind, a welcome change from its stiff upper lip, but his jaw is tensed unhappily. An expression Barnum has yet to extinguish.

“Is something wrong?” he asks. “Ever since I took on Jenny you’ve been acting like this.”

“I’m concerned she’s too much for us to handle. She’s too big for us, P.T.; she’s an international icon. If something goes wrong…”

“What could go wrong?”

“Name it.”

“Phillip.” Barnum lays down his pencil, takes off his spectacles. He gazes at Phillip with exasperated affection. “Nothing is going to go wrong.”

“How do you know that? You’ve never had experience dealing with a star of this magnitude.”

“I handled _you_ pretty well.”

“P.T.,” Phillip says, appalled. “Jenny Lind is at least three or four rungs above me. _At least_. She may well make history for her stage presence alone.”

“Maybe you and I will too,” Barnum shoots back, trying to hide the edge of woundedness to his words. “Don’t shortchange us.”

“She needs a handler. Someone who has professional experience managing star performers.”

“And give someone else the glory?” Barnum shakes his head. “Sometimes I think you don’t understand this business at all, Phillip.”

It’s a low blow and he immediately regrets it. “I’m sorry you find me so obtuse,” Phillip says softly. “But as I recall you did hire me to find you a higher class of clientele. I assumed my opinion on the subject would be welcome.”

“It is. It is.” Barnum rubs his brow. “I’m sorry, Phil. I’m tense, that’s all.”

“Something to do with the thoroughbred in her gilded stall?” Phillip crooks a smile.

Barnum’s gaze drifts off to one side. He can’t stop thinking about her. What is it? She’s beautiful, yes – but what _is_ it? A magnetism so strong it could throw off the earth’s fields, one that throws off his own, scrambles what has always been strong. Charity’s steady, serene pull, his true north, is garbled into confusion. And Phillip – the bit between his teeth, the complementary pull and tug against his will – suddenly begins to chafe him.

What _is _it?

He’s so lost in thought he doesn’t even notice Phillip leave. When he does look up, the absence is startling.

* * *

_Bedlam_ doesn’t even begin to describe it.

“I need transportation for two dozen people to the Barnum Circus.” Phillip bellows this over the noise of the crowd; the porter’s ear is practically pressed to his mouth. “Can you arrange that?”

As he speaks he slips a generous incentive into the young man’s hand. “Surely, sir,” the porter bellows back, “be happy to, sir, but it’ll take a half an hour at least.”

Phillip adds a couple of bills.

“Ten minutes, tops, sir.” The porter tugs with frantic respect on his hat. “Please to wait here, sir.”

He dashes off.

Phillip beckons for Lettie and the others to start down the gangway – not the same one that Jenny Lind will take near her lavish accommodations. “It’s okay,” he coaxes as the Oddities flinch and fumble their way down. He can feel sweat trickling down the sides of his face, dampening his collar. Barnum asked him to do this because he needs to escort Lind. But Phillip would have paid a large amount of money not to be forced to stand back-on to a jeering crowd. “I’ve arranged for transportation home. You won’t have to wait here long.”

Lettie is the first off, clutching the hand he offers as she steps awkwardly to the ground. “Get your land-legs under you,” he coaches as she sways. “It’s a strange feeling.”

“Not as strange as the looks these people are giving us.” Lettie speaks in a low voice, which is more effective than trying to shout. “Carlyle, they’re _laughing._”

“Ignore ‘em, Lets. _They_ ain’t been to see the Queen.” W.D. steps off behind her, Anne’s arm tucked firmly under his. “Chin up, you got nothin’ to hide.”

Anne gives Phillip one fleeting helpless look as she goes by. Before he can think of anything to do or say she’s already past, joining the growing huddle of Oddities.

Charles is the last one off. “Gimme a minute,” he says, stopping at the drop to the dock. “My legs are stiff.”

One minute turns into two. “Let me help you,” Phillip says finally, worry prickling at his mind. “Come on, you’re holding up the show.”

“I don’t want you lifting me.”

“I won’t lift you. I’ll just take your hand. Come on, Charles. One little hop and you’re clear.”

Charles grabs his hand a bit too tightly. “One little hop,” he echoes.

“On three. One, two…”

Predictably, Charles doesn’t let anyone tell him what to do. He jumps on two and lands with a grimace. “Shit,” he groans, keeling over. “You said _little_.”

“I said _hop_. What you just did was a qualifier for the high jump.”

“Eat dirt, Carlyle.” Charles uses Phillip’s hand to haul himself upright; his face is pasty. “Tell me no one was looking.”

“Okay,” Phillip agrees. “No one was looking. And I wear ladies’ braziers.”

“Yeah, knowing you…”

“Is he okay?” Lettie asks, peering around Phillip’s back. “Charles, you look like you landed face-first in a pile of flour.”

“And you look like you just spent eight days puking your guts into the sea. Oh right, you did.” Charles drops Phillip’s hand. “Can we _go_ now?”

There’s a time and place to force the truth out of Charles. This is neither. “There’s our man,” Phillip says, pointing to the waving porter. “Vasily, make a lane for us, will you?”

None of the Oddities complain about not getting to see Jenny Lind disembark. Phillip skips the spectacle himself in favour of cramming his tired body into a carriage. When the door shuts there’s a moment of stunned silence among the occupants. “How many people _are_ there?” the taller Albino Twin, Farah, asks with soft, almost wounded astonishment.

Phillip turns his face to the window just in time to see Barnum and Lind appear at the top of a gangplank. The pair wave as they begin their descent. An auditory buffet hits the carriage a moment later, the result of a swelling scream of approval. “Too many,” he says, drawing the curtain abruptly. “Don’t worry about it. We’re going home.”

* * *

Phillip goes up to the office as soon as everyone is settled in. O’Malley is there, sitting at a makeshift desk, his knees sticking awkwardly to either side. It’s clearly too small for him, especially against the two massive desks facing each other. Phillip considers inquiring and then decides against it. He’s too tired to hear about how O’Malley and his second cousin stole a discarded desk from behind a school with much effort and persecution. “Hey,” he says instead. “Glad to see the place didn’t burn down without us.”

“Aye,” O’Malley says without looking up, “but the day’s not over yet, is it?”

Phillip tosses his hat and coat on top of Barnum’s desk and walks away, unbuttoning his cuffs. It’s disrespectful and entirely deliberate. “Any problems while we were gone?” he asks.

“Nope.”

Phillip collapses behind his own desk. The mountain of mail he was expecting is mercifully more like a molehill. They were right to leave O’Malley in charge. He picks up a letter-opener and begins slicing open the nearest correspondence. “How are the protestors?”

“I thought they’d quiet down without the shows, but if anything they’ve gotten nastier.” O’Malley finally looks up. “’Course, we did the exhibitions like Mister Barnum wanted.”

“Did that turn a profit?”

“Sure, sure. Not so much as the shows, but a buck’s a buck.”

Phillip tosses the letter down after reading the first line. Hate mail for Barnum. He takes out a small book from his bottom drawer and carefully pens in the name and address. Then he takes the letter and feeds it to the fire. “More kindlin’?” O’Malley asks, cocking one eye.

“Yep.”

“How much do you think that saves us a month?”

“Last month it was five dollars and seventy-two cents.” Phillip retakes his seat. “A buck’s a buck, as a wise man said.”

“Have these fine patrons sponsored us before?”

“First time.” Phillip closes the book and replaces it in the drawer. “And hopefully the last.”

“Yer a good lad.” O’Malley sighs as if the weight of the world is suspended above his head. “Where’s himself, anyway?”

“Probably still at the docks. The crowd was massive.”

“With that fancy dame on his arm?”

“Mm.”

“He won’t show her around here, will he?”

Phillip shudders at the idea of Jenny Lind mingling with the Oddities. “Not likely,” he says. “Though I would pay a lot of money to hear her and Lettie duet.”

O’Malley’s basset-hound eyes grow even more mournful at the thought of what he will never hear. “Was the Queen as beautiful as they say?” he asks.

“Definitely. Very magnificent. She has a good sense of humour, thank God.”

“Why? Who ate their foot?”

“Charles.”

“Jeezum-crow, I told you boys to muzzle him.”

“She told him he was small. He was just repaying the favour. Of course, he had to go the extra mile and call her _sweetheart_.”

As Phillip goes through the rest of the mail he and O’Malley chat about circus doings. It’s been almost a month since they left for London, and Phillip is surprisingly relieved to be back. The morning is gone and O’Malley has gone for lunch when Barnum bursts in, colour high and eyes sparkling. He looks halfway to insane and all the way to brilliant.

“Incredible,” he proclaims, tossing his hat and coat on top of Phillip’s. He doesn’t even seem to notice the transgression. “Spectacular. _Astounding_.”

“Shall I fetch a thesaurus or are you okay to keep going?”

“They _loved_ her, Phillip. They loved _us_.” Barnum unbuttons his jacket with nimble fingers. His gaze is dreamy, distant. Phillip can’t help grinning despite himself. “We’re going to pack the place.”

“Okay, but everyone here is asking about you, so you should probably go make an appearance. They’re shaken up from the scene at the docks.” Phillip doesn’t mention that his own muscles are still quivering; he tries to keep things like that under wraps. “Oh, and I talked to O’Malley, and he says the protestors…”

“I’m sure he has things well in hand.” Barnum brushes it off like a layer of dust on a shelf. “Bennett was at the docks; he took some quotes. God, Phil, this is going to be _huge_.”

Phillip sighs. When Barnum gets like this there’s no stopping him; bystanders can only get out of his way and hope he loses steam. “I know it is,” he says. “I’m happy, trust me. By the way, not that it’s any of my business, but I didn’t see Charity and the girls there. Did you tell them the wrong time?”

“No, I figured the crowd would be too much with Jenny. I told them to meet me here in…” Barnum checks his pocket-watch. “Fifteen minutes.”

A cold hand dips into Phillip’s stomach. It’s nothing, surely; Barnum was only concerned about the welfare of his family. “Then you should probably stop looking happy about Jenny Lind and start looking happy about your wife and children. Women can tell the difference, you know.”

“Then how do _you_ know who I’m happy about?”

“Women, and men who caught your insanity,” Phillip amends. “Seriously, P.T., stop grinning at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like a lion about to goose a zebra. This could all fall through, you know.”

“You can’t bring me down, Phillip Carlyle.” Barnum plants both hands on Phillip’s desk, leaning forward until Phillip tilts his chair back with a curse. “Not today. Today, the Prince of Humbug is the king of the world.”

He flicks two fingers at his forehead in a jaunty salute and saunters out.

Phillip spends the rest of that day and evening preparing frantically for their next show. After he falls, exhausted, into bed, he dreams that there was something important he meant to ask Charles. Try as he might, he can’t remember what.

* * *

Barnum wakes that night in a cold sweat.

He and Charity are intertwined, naked, tangled in the sheets. Her golden hair is muted in the thin moonlight. Barnum lies there, breathing in rasps, reliving the horror, until his heartbeat slows. Then he sits up, carefully shifting Charity to her side of the bed.

She is too finely attuned to his movements. “Phin?” she murmurs. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” He swings his legs over the edge of the bed. The carpet is lush and warm beneath his feet, not cold and unforgiving like the creaky wooden floor. “I’ll be back soon.”

“Where are you going?” She sits up behind him, spilling the sheets from her in a soft rustle. If he turns he knows what he will see: sculpted ivory curves, marvellously smooth in the moonlight. He knows she would let him make love to her again if he wanted. He gets up and heads for the massive closet, feeling his way in the dark.

“Phin.” Charity is less supplicating now. “Tell me what you’re doing.”

“I need to walk. Go back to sleep.”

“Was it the dream again?”

His fingers still on a pair of trousers. Charity gets up. His fingers tighten in the fabric as she slips her long arms around him, pressing against his back. “Talk to me,” she murmurs against his skin.

His earlier excitement over Jenny Lind seems unimportant and dull in this moment. In this moment, in the dark, he’s just a young man again with nothing but dreams and desperation. “I’ve never had the dream here before,” he whispers. “I thought…I thought I was safe here.”

Charity’s hands rub gently over his belly. He stills them with his own before heat can build below his navel. “I need to see them again,” he says.

“It’s three in the morning.”

“They won’t mind.”

Charity turns him around to face her. “I will,” she whispers, her face turned up to his. “I can’t stand thinking of you out there in the dark all by yourself.”

“I won’t sleep if I’m here.” He’s pleading now, pleading for her to understand and accept. “Chairy, please.”

As usual, she accepts even when she doesn’t understand. “Dress warmly,” she instructs, detaching herself from him. She lights a lamp. Soft light flickers between them, creating odd shadows on the walls. “Here, hold this.”

She watches him go dressed in the clothes she picked out. Older clothes, not meant for impressing anyone, clothes with stains worn into the knees and creases that refuse to be ironed flat. Barnum takes the lane until he sees the looming shape of the Hallett estate against the stars; then he breaks with the road, finding a familiar way through carefully trimmed hedges and flora.

_Here or a pauper’s grave._ Benjamin Hallett’s face is pale and tight, an apparition from another time. _Your choice._

_What if they’re buried here? Will we be able to see them?_

_Charity may see them anytime she wishes – without you, of course._

_You’re a goddamned cruel excuse for a man._

_Cruel to those who are cruel to me. Choose, boy, or I’ll choose for you._

Barnum finds the smooth headstone sequestered in the bowed arbour. The immaculate polished marble glints in the moonlight. He kneels in the springy grass, slightly dented with use, and presses his lips to the cool stone. For all his canker, Benjamin Hallett has seen to the preservation of this hidden sanctuary with pristine consistency. Nothing stirs in the vast yard beyond.

“We’re closer now.” Barnum whispers this into the barely imperceptible shush of the breeze. “Just down the lane. You can almost hear Caroline and Helen playing.”

The wind sighs.

“Our house is bigger now, too. A real house, not an apartment. You’d like it.”

Nothing answers. He has to stop to collect himself as tears threaten his composure. “I’m sorry I haven’t visited for a while,” he chokes out. “I’ve been busy – I built a circus, did you know that? And…”

But saying Jenny Lind’s name at this grave seems wrong, somehow – obscene in a way he can’t define.

He stretches out on his belly over the grave. His breaths flutter the dark grass to one side. “Your mother sends her love,” he whispers. “I’m taking better care of them. I think...I think they're close to being happy.”

It’s nearly dawn before he rises, stiff and cold, from the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the real P.T. Barnum had four daughters, not two - I just thought it was an interesting idea to explore (as many have already done), especially considering the unusually large time gap between his marriage and the births of Caroline and Helen. (I've generously set Barnum's age at 43, considering Jackman was almost fifty when the movie was made.) And I made the other children fraternal twins because creative license.
> 
> Next chapter up Monday September 9th!


	3. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Jenny Lind concert is bad for relationships.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter includes a PTSD reaction, so if you are triggered by these things please be careful!

It’s as close as they’ve ever come to a shouting match.

“We have a show tonight.” Barnum doesn’t look up. “There’s no time.”

“P.T., this is the biggest event New York has seen in years.” Phillip tries to sound reasonable, but what he really wants to do is shake Barnum by the braces. “You can’t stop your own performers from attending.”

“Where did they even get the idea they’d be going?”

“I don’t know. Maybe they figured it was a reasonable assumption.”

Barnum finally looks up from his desk. He’s surrounded by playbills for the Jenny Lind concert. The circus posters he was working on before London have been shoved to one side. “And where am I supposed to put them during the show?”

“We’ll figure that out when we get there.”

“Dammit, Phillip, we’re talking about bearded ladies and albino dancers, not Joe Common and Sarah Plainsleeves.”

“Take it easy, P.T.,” Phillip says, startled by Barnum’s intensity. “You’re getting way too worked up over this.”

“Sorry. I haven’t slept.”

It’s as curt as Barnum’s ever been with him and sounds very little like an apology. It also sounds true. “When did that become a thing?” Phillip asks, worry rising despite everything.

“Past couple of nights.”

“What’s wrong? I know you’re not big on spending eight hours unconscious at a stretch, but insomnia’s new – isn’t it?”

A frustrated breath buzzes from Barnum’s lips. He turns back to scrutinising the playbills for errors, and that silence is somehow worse than a riposte. “Are you angry with me?” Phillip asks, although he already knows the answer.

“No.”

“Please don’t lie.”

“You’re pissing me off,” Barnum says, and it might be wishful thinking but Phillip fancies he hears a hint of playfulness. “It’s a different thing.”

“One day you can explain that to me. For now…” Phillip swipes the playbill from Barnum’s hands. “Stop looking at those. They’re perfect, and if they’re not, there’s nothing you can do about it at this point.”

“You don’t understand how important this is.”

“Can you stop telling me I don’t understand? What do you think I don’t understand? I’ve been producing plays for years, Barnum, my _own _plays – works that have been shown in _London_, for God’s sake. You think you have nerves? Get Miss Lind to sing something you composed, and then talk to me.”

His own vehemence startles him. “First thing, young man.” Barnum levels a stern finger at him. “I founded this circus on dance routines I created at two in the morning. Two, now you are _really_ pissing me off. Three, if you want the Oddities to be at Jenny’s performance, you’re going to have to escort them yourself, because I am too damn busy.”

“Done,” Phillip says, his throat tight. “We’ll be there.”

“No costumes.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“No riots, either, or I swear to God this will be the last field trip in this decade.”

Between Barnum’s thunderous mood and the Oddities’ gleeful excitement, a dangerously electric tension has started to build. Barnum has placed a strict limit on the number of Oddities allowed to attend – regrettably, the first really sensible thing he’s done since coming home. Phillip has the unpleasant task of drawing names from Barnum’s top hat, and then he finds himself fielding fashion questions from so many quarters his head spins.

He finally finds refuge a bare hour from the performance.

Only it’s not really refuge, because he ducks into a back room only to discover that Anne is sitting in front of a mirror pinning up her hair. He has a moment of furious embarrassment, brought on by the startled look in her reflected eyes, before he finds himself saying, “Anne, you look incredible.”

“Thanks.” Anne ducks her head, either from shyness or to gain better access to the back. She looks lovely in black lace. “So do you, I must say.”

Phillip unthinkingly adjusts the cravat at his throat. It’s already choking him. “Thank you. Although I think I prefer us all in costume – oddly, it seems more natural.”

Anne laughs and stabs her bun with a pin. “Didn’t seem all that natural in London,” she returns. “I don’t think the Queen’s courtiers have a whole lot of imagination.”

Phillip remembers how Anne kept clutching herself as if to cover what was exposed. She never does that here. “I’m sorry you felt so uncomfortable,” he says quietly. “I think we all did.”

“It’s nothin’.” Anne shrugs it off, but Phillip knows better than to take that at face value. “It was just that they were all dressed so fancy, and…I guess without my proper clothes I felt like a freak.”

“You’re not a freak.”

“Well, maybe I just felt black.”

“You are black.” Phillip speaks in a low voice, but he’s not ashamed of what he’s saying. What he’s saying could be writ in gold and posted in Times Square. “And you’re incredibly beautiful.”

Anne turns to look at him with a blush darkening her cheekbones. “And so are you,” she smiles. “You and your…beautiful words.”

“They’re not just words.” Phillip knows she won’t believe him until he proves himself – God willing he’ll get that chance. “I’d be seen with you anywhere. No matter what you had on – or didn’t.”

“Lord,” she says, amused and pleased.

He bows his head a little. “I’m being too bold.”

“You’re gettin’ ahead of yourself, that’s what you are.”

“You’ll see,” Phillip says, smiling back determinedly. For many weeks – months – he has longed to touch her hand, to kiss the lips that flirt with him so cautiously, but something in each of them has held him back. Tonight that thrumming, dangerous electricity speaks of the possibility of magic, of an unleashing. His heart seems to be shivering rather than beating, quaking, shaking.

“We don’t have to do things the way the world does,” he says. “One day they’ll be marching to _our_ beat. You’ll see,” he repeats, because he believes it, he really does.

* * *

_Visible._

It’s the word of the night. Barnum says it behind the curtain, quietly devastating Phillip. Phillip thinks it when he drops Anne’s hand – _please God please don’t let our hands be visible._

And Anne is visible, too visible, when she tears out of the theatre, tears streaming from her eyes and gown fluttering. She climbs into a buggy and orders it to the circus, but not before a well-dressed, big-bellied man rushes out onto the front steps and stares after her.

After a minute of fruitless watching, he goes back inside. Invisible.

* * *

“Daddy, why are you by yourself?”

Barnum turns his head at the sound of Caroline’s voice. She’s already nightgowned and slipper-clad, a sleepy Cinderella after the ball. A cigar perches between his fingers, glowing at the tip. The reeking smoke is a new experience for him; cheap cigarettes on the railway were all he ever knew. _Ladysticks,_ some of the men called them – cigars made thin for delicate female fingers. But beggars can’t be choosers.

If cigars are supposed to be some kind of phallic status symbol, they fall hilariously short.

“Just getting some air, sweetheart.” Barnum tries not to let his mood show, but even to his own ears, his words fall flat. “You should get ready for bed.”

Instead of taking his advice, Caroline comes forward to lean on the balcony railing next to him. It’s turning out to be a cloudy night – the stars have all disappeared. “Why are you mad at my grandfather?” she asks quietly, and her childish innocence skewers him.

“It’s complicated, Caroline.” Barnum glares at the cigar, hating it for its disgusting fumes. “Your mother could explain better.”

After his shameful outburst tonight he’s pretty sure Charity could best him at anything. “Mommy doesn’t want to talk about it either,” Caroline says quietly. “Did Helen and I do something bad?”

“No, you didn’t.” Barnum speaks too forcefully, but it’s important that his daughters understand this. “These are adult problems, not kid ones. Don’t worry about it.”

Caroline drops it, but he knows she’ll worry anyway. “Did you sing in the circus?” she asks, switching to what she probably thinks is a safer topic.

Barnum thrusts the cigar between his teeth, sucking in a big breath. The foul smoke billows into his lungs. It’s all he can do not to cough it back out. “Phillip stepped in for me tonight,” he says as cloudy air flows out of his mouth and nose. “I’m sure he was wonderful.”

“He looked sad at the party.”

“Did he?” Barnum’s blood runs cold – he can’t remember talking to Phillip the entire night. Was his partner drinking? Did he even make it to the circus? If so, was he sober enough to perform? “Why was he sad?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did you see him drink any champagne?”

Caroline shrugs.

Barnum sighs, stubbing the cigar out on the railing. God, he hates these things. “Those stink,” Caroline says as if reading his mind. She wrinkles her nose. “Can you please not smoke them anymore?”

“I think I can arrange that.” Barnum hugs her to his side. Cigars are essential in the circles he hopes to run in, but he won’t tell her that. “Can I still kiss you goodnight?”

“Not on my nose.”

“Okay.” Obligingly he presses his lips to her hair. “That good?”

“You still stink.” Caroline holds her nose and presents her lips. “Now try.”

He pecks them, drawing a giggle. “Good?” he asks again.

“Better.” Caroline smiles almost shyly over her shoulder. “Goodnight, Daddy. I hope you feel happy again soon.”

He grinds the cigar against the stonework until it is little more than pulp. Happy. _If not for those Halletts,_ he thinks. _If not for the march of the Oddities._

* * *

The concert is a disaster.

Phillip stumbles into his bedroom mainly by memory, soggy with drink and self-loathing. Barnum is probably still at the afterparty, soaking up champagne and accolades. Phillip remembers nothing of it, but not because he was drunk. That came later. He remembers nothing because his whole attention was fixated on the moment he dropped Anne’s hand.

What in God’s name _possessed _him?

Charles finds him lying on his side on the floor, puking his guts into the crook of his elbow. “I should leave you there,” is Charles’ opening line. Phillip groans in agreement. “First you ditch Anne, then you ditch the show, then you break the Roomie Rules. You’re batting about a negative twelve tonight, Swell.”

He feels a hand touch his temple. “But you stood with us tonight at the theatre,” Charles grumbles. “That makes you only half the asshole Barnum is. So I think I’ll be generous.”

_Generous _includes a scalding pot of coffee on the stove and a washcloth over the back of his neck. “Can’t hold it like you used to, huh, Phil old boy?” Charles says almost comfortingly. “That’s temperance for you.”

“Why did I do it?” Phillip mumbles against the toilet with vomit-encrusted lips.

“You’re askin’ me?”

“I’m asking God.” Phillip turns his face to the side, as close as he can get to facing the ceiling. “Why for the love of yourself did you make me an asshat?”

But he’s not really blaming God or anyone else. The fact is, when he saw his parents looking at him from that box he was engulfed in panic. He could say that the memories of that alley came back, the memories of being raped by a stranger, with all the possibility of a repeat performance. He could say that it’s the money – the inheritance he stands to lose that his lawyer brother can do nothing about.

But if he’s honest, the real reason he dropped Anne’s hand was the deep intuition that it’s going to be either her or his parents. He’s tied to his family by one strand of the original cord, and it can’t take the weight of a mixed marriage. When it came right down to it, he wasn’t ready to sever that final strand.

Why, he may never know. Surely any sane person would run at that strand, screaming, with the sharpest knife they could find.

From the corner of his eye he sees Charles wince and suddenly, with explosive illumination, he remembers what he wanted to ask him.

“What’s wrong with you?”

It comes out a bit slurred, but it’s earnest nonetheless. “You’re one to talk,” Charles retorts. “Shut up and puke.”

“You’re in pain.”

“It’s nothing. Sore muscles.” Charles pushes his head back toward the toilet bowl. “Come on, I know there’s more in there.”

“No, I’m done.” With far too great an effort, Phillip pushes himself upright. “You were in pain at the docks too. I meant to ask you, but…”

“But Barnum’s been working you like a dog, so you forgot.”

It’s true, but it’s no excuse. “What’s wrong? Seriously, Charles, I’m worried.”

Charles frowns down at his clasped hands. His body may be charmingly childlike, but there’s no mistaking adulthood’s hard-won wisdom. “I don’t know. My legs hurt. That’s all.”

“Can you be more specific?”

Charles points at one leg, then the other. “I mean in terms of the pain,” Phillip clarifies, resting his forehead against the toilet bowl. The cool surface soothes his raging headache. “Do they ache, is it sharp, is it…”

“An ache mostly. Except sometimes it’s sharp. Like if I jump or run.”

Phillip licks his lips, wincing at the taste of bile. He can feel it crusting in the crook of his elbow. “When did this start?”

“Couple weeks before we left for London.”

“And you haven’t said anything this whole time?”

“What was I gonna say? Ow, my legs hurt?”

“For a start.”

“Probably nothin’ you can do about it.” With that morose reflection, Charles props himself against the wall. “Besides, you’re busy.”

“I’ll never be too busy for this. First thing tomorrow morning…” Phillip’s head throbs in protest. “…first thing tomorrow afternoon we’re going to a doctor.”

“Come on, man…”

“Don’t waste your breath, Charles. This is nonnegotiable.”

Remarkably, that is the end of the conversation. Charles must really be in pain.

Somehow, with Charles’ limping help, Phillip manages to draw a bath. When he finally staggers into his room he sees Charles slumped over the pillow. The failed vigil is somehow poignant.

He could carry the man to his own bed. But not only would that be inadvisable in his tipsy state, Charles would probably kill him in the morning. So Phillip curls up next to his friend in whatever space is left and loses himself in drunken slumber.

* * *

“Hey guys, guess who tried to violate my honour last night?”

Charles’ cheerful voice sails clear through the circus halls. “Thank you, Charles,” Phillip snaps, dragging himself toward the stairs. “I appreciate your adherence to ‘whatever happens in the apartment…’”

“Yeah, well, you broke the ‘no being drunk at home’ rule. I’m just making it even.” Charles turns back to his crowd of listeners and Phillip utters a pained chuckle. God, he really should hate that little bastard. _Has it always been a morning person?_ Charles asked as soon as Phillip opened his eyes, and if Phillip’s hangover hadn’t been a category four he would have cursed like a sailor.

Moving into a category five, shortly.

“Good morning.” Barnum is waiting by his desk, hands on his hips. “You’re late.”

“And you’re here.” Phillip shuffles in, letting his coat fall wherever it pleases. “Now we’re both surprised.”

“I don’t recall asking for lip.”

Phillip looks up, startled. He figured Barnum would be angry, but…He meets Barnum’s eyes and sees the thunderstorm brewing. His insides coil uncomfortably, and unthinkingly he inches back toward the wall.

_Stay calm it’s Barnum you’re not cornered you’re not trapped…_

Barnum hooks the door with his hand. It hits the frame with a bang. “Leave the door open,” Phillip says automatically.

“We’re going to maintain some semblance of professionalism.” Barnum’s tone is hard. “It stays closed.”

Phillip starts forward. “Did you not hear me?” Barnum demands, holding up a hand. “Or have you decided that my decisions are optional?”

“If you’re angry about last night…”

“I’m _furious_ about last night. What the hell is wrong with you? The show went on without a ringmaster.”

“I’m sorry,” is all Phillip finds to say.

“You’re sorry? I was counting on you to be there. You let me down.”

The painful words hardly register. Phillip’s heart is punching at his ribcage, his pulse racing out of control. What’s happening to him? “And you didn’t let us down?” he forces out. “Why did you turn away Lettie and the others last night? Do you realise how furious _they_ are with _you?_”

“Try to picture to yourself what might have happened if I had let them in.”

“You’re right. If you had done that they might have stormed the place and offended everyone present.”

Barnum’s right hand clenches. The hairs on the back of Phillip’s neck rise. “I want the door open,” he says.

“In a minute.”

“P.T.…”

“How drunk were you? Three glasses of champagne drunk, or did you empty a bottle?”

“It wasn’t a _full_ bottle…”

“_Shit._” Barnum’s fist connects with Phillip’s desk, and Phillip’s back hits the wall before he can blink. “This is unbelievable.”

Phillip struggles to get enough air into his tightening chest. “You don’t understand…”

“I don’t care what the reasons are! Getting drunk because you were…because you were…” Barnum stalls just before he can say _raped_, but it’s too late to prevent the word from smacking Phillip like a rogue wave_. _“Anyway, that’s one thing. Deciding to ditch a performance out of the blue…”

Phillip’s ears begin to ring. _I’m going to throw up,_ he wants to say, but his mouth has gone treacherously dry. He covers his ears with his hands. _Stop, P.T., something’s wrong._

“Seriously, Phillip?”

“I’m going to throw up,” Phillip manages.

“What do you mean?” Barnum’s tone shifts. “Are you sick?”

“No, I’m…” Phillip’s knees buckle, and his back hits the wall. His whole body buzzes like a limb that has fallen asleep. “…I’m…”

The tinny ringing turns into a full set of handbells. Phillip can taste the musty gag in his mouth, soaked with spittle; images flash brokenly before his eyes. He barely registers Barnum’s arms around him, easing him to the floor; he faintly hears the door bang open and Barnum’s bellow in the hall before he hears footsteps, _their _footsteps, three sets coming out of the darkness like stalking wolves.

“_Open the door!_” Phillip shouts, barely hearing his own voice.

“Phillip, easy. You’re safe – you’re at the circus.”

“It hurts.”

“You’re safe.”

“Father, make him stop!”

“I did, Phillip. I’m here, and I made him stop.”

He gets the sense, when he starts to register the feel of the floorboards under his ribs, that he’s been down there for some time. He’s locked in the fetal position, every muscle stiffly at attention. He can smell the sweat rinsing his body. His clenched eyelids are slick with it.

It’s Barnum’s scent that first anchors him to reality. It’s a strange thing to notice, perhaps, but Phillip is a man sensitive to detail. Musky cologne lingers on Barnum’s unbuttoned cuffs; one of his large hands presses over Phillip’s, cradling his upturned ear.

“I should have left the door open. That’s what did it.”

“Didn’t he tell you to?”

“It was a private conversation, Lettie. I wanted to keep it that way. If you people didn’t constantly try to eavesdrop…”

“So you yelled at him?”

“You’re pissed at me. I get that. But if you expect me to permit drunkenness on the job, you’re working for the wrong guy.”

“He’s right,” Phillip croaks. Barnum’s hand tightens over his. “I screwed up.”

“Never mind that right now. What happened?”

“I don’t know. I just panicked.” Phillip hitches air into his lungs. "What did I say?"

“That's not important. Are you okay?”

There’s a moment when he tries to make sense of it, to say that yes, he is okay, and then he breaks down.

It’s just humiliating, the whole thing. Barnum and Angus have to half-carry him to the couch, and then he just lies there shaking like a leaf while Lettie and the others exchange looks.

“I’m sorry.” Barnum stands over him, his hands in his pockets. His jaw clenches and unclenches. “Truly sorry.”

“It’s f-fine.”

Barnum turns his face away. “Somebody get him a blanket,” he says as Lettie comes forward. “Everybody else clear out.”

“Everybody but me.” Lettie strokes her hands down both sides of Phillip’s face; her palms come away damp. “What happened, Carlyle? You were down for a long time.”

“Just got spooked.” It’s the best word he can come up with – that image of a horse shying away. “It’s okay. Just…just memories.”

Nobody says _the alley. _But they all know it. Lettie glances up at Barnum, but his face is still turned away and he doesn’t see. “Well, take it easy,” she says. Someone spreads a blanket over him and she hitches it higher. “I’ve seen this before. You have to rest, that’s all. Get your breath back.”

“Right.” Phillip smiles tremulously. “Thanks.”

Lettie nods and pats his chest. She’s angry at him, he sees that. But she can’t suppress who she is. She leaves, casting a warning look at Barnum, and the others follow.

Phillip curls up, hugging the blanket to his chin. “I’m still mad,” he manages to say through shivering lips. “Don’t think this argument is over.”

Barnum cracks a laugh, and even that fractured sound is sweet relief. “God, Phillip, you did screw up,” he says, shaking his head, “but damn if I don’t still think the world of you.”

_Same here,_ Phillip thinks sadly. Barnum sinks down on the floor, his back propped against the couch. “I’m sorry,” he says again. “I wasn’t planning to yell.”

“It wasn’t the yelling. I told you…”

“I know, the door.” Barnum runs a hand through his hair. “You shouldn’t have had to tell me.”

The silence stretches.

“I’m sorry too,” Phillip finally says.

Barnum smiles a little. “Generally, you apologise too much,” he notes. “But in this case…”

“P.T., I messed up. Bad.”

The confession spills from his lips before he can stop it. “I thought we covered that,” Barnum says.

“I mean with Anne.” Phillip wipes his nose with the blanket. “I stood with her during Lind’s performance and…I held her hand.”

Barnum’s eyebrows rise. _About time_, they say.

“My parents saw us.”

Now the silence is a millstone above their heads. Barnum blows out a long, slow breath. “I sense this is the part where you decided to get drunk.”

“I dropped her hand.”

Barnum looks down at his hands. “Ah, Phil,” he sighs.

“What do I do, P.T.? How can I possibly make it up to her?”

He might be asking the wrong man, considering everything that's happened. But who else can he ask? “That’s a hard one,” Barnum says, still staring at his hands. “I’ll have to think about it.”

“I hate myself.”

“I don’t want to hear you talk like that. Besides, you have enough to do without spending energy on self-loathing. For starters, when you feel well enough to stand you’re going to pour every drop of booze we own down the drain.”

Phillip groans into the blanket.

“That’s your punishment. Then we’re going to sit down and discuss last night’s concert. I have some plans we need to talk over, and tomorrow night is another circus show…which you _will_ attend as the ringmaster.”

It’s like he’s a teenager again, caught at the burlesque during study hour. “Anything else?” he snips, though he’s still quivering under the blanket.

“Besides the fact we’ll do it all loudly enough to shatter your hungover brain? I don’t think so.”

“What about Lettie and the others? You really hurt them. You have to say something.” _I’m not the only one who screwed up,_ he wants to say.

For a moment Barnum is quiet. “I’ll try to explain,” he concedes at last. “I…may have handled things too hastily.” He looks up at Phillip, and for a moment his eyes are vulnerable, pleading for understanding.

_We’re in the same boat,_ Phillip thinks as he meets that gaze. _A couple of Jonahs bringing down a storm._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter up Monday September 16th!


	4. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Barnum's last day at the circus has its ups and downs, and Charity is devious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally a touch of circus fluff amid the angst! ;) Thanks so much for the comments and kudos everyone!

They can’t get in to see a doctor.

“I’ll look around.” Phillip tries to hide how disturbed he feels at their lack of success. They tried four different physicians. One of them should have been able to help. “Someone will see you, don’t worry.”

“They don’t think I’m worth it.” Charles kicks at pebbles as they walk, his round jaw set. “Probably nothing they could do anyway.”

“Don’t say that.” Phillip kicks one of the pebbles back. Charles boots it a couple more times and then lets the game die. “I have faith.”

Actually, what he has is desperation. Someone is going to help Charles if he has to threaten them with a glowing poker.

* * *

Caroline and Helen’s voices are a light chime in the background, occasionally rising to a delighted shriek. Charity blows a strand of hair out of her face, scraping doggedly with a shovel at a dried-on elephant turd. Her daughters are scrubbing tack with the horse trainers, soaped up to the elbow in the back room. They haven’t been this happy in weeks.

Charity changes her angle of attack and finally gets some purchase on the turd. The nearest corner sloughs off and she loses her balance, barely catching herself on the shovel handle. A blister pops, spitting liquid across her palm in a painful smear.

It hurts and she stinks and she’s tired. It beats reciting poetry in the Tight Corset Society by a long shot.

Footsteps round the corner while she’s still leaning on the shovel. Phillip sees her and stops short, a priceless expression of shock on his face. He takes her in from head to toe, his brows quirking in bewilderment. “Charity. What are you _doing?_”

At this moment, no one could possibly mistake her for a lady. Her hair is swept back in a messy bun, her skirts tucked into her waist – exposing her pale legs and the tops of her sensible work boots – and sweat trickling down her red face. Phillip looks genuinely distressed at the sight.

_Sweet boy._

“I’m mucking stalls.” Charity digs the edge of the shovel under the turd again, grimly working it loose. “Don’t you know I do that?”

“This isn’t your job.” Phillip reaches for the shovel. “Please, let me.”

It’s tempting. Phillip with his sleeves rolled up and dung on his shoes must be a sight to behold. But she can’t quite let him, not with his features so strained and tired. “I don’t mind doing it,” she says, holding the shovel just out of reach. She places a hand on his chest. “You have enough to do.”

Phillip visibly struggles to concede. It’s understandable. He was raised to handle her like fine china and she was raised to let him. After a moment, she laughs to set him at ease, and he gives way with a frustrated smile.

“I’m sorry,” he says, bowing back a step or two. Even his discourtesies are gracious – Anne will never know rough treatment with him. “I’ve never seen a lady with a shovel.”

“And you don’t now.” Charity props her foot against the blunt back of the shovel. With a grating grumble the edge goes under and neatly flips up the turd, depositing it a good two feet away. She wipes her brow triumphantly. “It’s been almost twenty years since I’ve been a lady.”

“I don’t think you could possibly be anything else,” Phillip contends gently. He sticks his hands in his pockets and looks uncomfortably at his feet. He’s probably trying not to look at her bared knees – oh, the fit her mother would have.

But that’s a train of thought she doesn’t want to ride. She smiles and props the shovel in a corner. “Lady or not, I think I’m ready for a break,” she says, dusting off her hands. “You are too, by the looks of things.”

Phillip looks up, surprised. “You’re tired,” she clarifies, touching his cheek lightly. “It’s in your eyes.”

He smiles wearily, and she wonders when he’s last had a full night’s sleep. “Come, sit with me for a few minutes,” she coaxes. “I’d like some company. Please?”

And he can’t say no, not as a gentleman. “Of course,” he says, lifting up a bucket of water for her. She scrubs off her hands and, to his carefully concealed amusement, wipes them on her skirt. “We can go to the office if you like.”

“No need; I’m quite comfortable here.” Charity flops down on a bale of hay, fanning herself with her hand. “Goodness, it’s been a while since I’ve worked that hard.”

“Can I get you some water?”

“Please.” Charity lets him do that much; he clearly won’t be happy until he performs some act of service. He returns with two tall glasses of water, and she accepts hers gratefully, drinking half of it without stopping.

“How long have you been working?” Phillip asks when she finally comes up for air.

“Almost two hours.” Charity chuckles at his pained look. “The alternative was congratulating Miss Turner on her latest poetic conquest.”

“Well, the stable hands appreciate it and so do I. There’s so much work to do around here, especially since…”

He stops. “Phineas hasn’t been around here much, has he?” Charity asks gently.

“He’s been busy with Miss Lind.”

“Yes, I know.” In her mind, Charity has started calling Jenny Lind _Genevieve_, a not-so-subtle illusion to her worst fears. There’s a bitch in every woman, she supposes, but in truth she’s less the bitch right now than the widow – sick with that horrible feeling that she has already lost her husband.

A man is never entirely tame to his wife’s hand.

“I’ve tried talking to him, but he’s getting more and more distracted.” Phillip leans his head back against the wall. “He’s changed.”

The hay tickles Charity’s bare calves as she shifts. “He’ll come around,” she says. “He’ll start missing his work here and this Jenny Lind business will come to its natural end.”

“I know it’s a sound business investment. But the circus is going to suffer if P.T. stays away much longer.”

At this point, Phillip is probably carrying over seventy-five percent of the circus workload. Any other man would demand a raise, a promotion, a swing at his boss’s jaw. Even Phineas, who has the energy of five men, ran himself ragged doing everything alone in those early days. Now the show has grown, and Phillip also manages his play on the side.

Charity wishes she could say she came here today just to help out. But in all honesty she’s been hoping to catch a glimpse of her husband. So much for that.

“I heard the concert didn’t go so well for you.”

Charity doesn’t know what prompts her to bring this up now. Perhaps it’s the sight of Phillip so bent and melancholy, like the world is hitched to his back. But when Phillip turns to her, she knows she’s asked the right question.

“Who told you?” he asks quietly.

“Circus grapevine,” Charity smiles.

Phillip sighs and turns away. “Have you apologised to her?” Charity asks.

“I tried, but she won’t even look at me. I thought about buying her flowers, but that seems almost insulting.”

“Mm, yes, you may want to try something more drastic.”

Phillip looks at her, his eyes pleading. “I don’t know what to do. I asked P.T. for advice, but I think he’s forgotten. Charity, I don’t know how I can make it up to her.”

“Well, however you make it up to her, remember the punishment has to fit the crime.”

“I would have to prove I’m not ashamed of her.” Phillip speaks to the wall opposite. “Nigh impossible.”

“I don’t see why.” Charity rubs at a smudge on her skirt. “Ask to court her publicly. That way, there can’t be any doubt in her mind.”

“Do you really think that will work?”

“It all depends on how well she holds a grudge. Do you think she’d agree to go out with you?”

“Probably not.” Phillip scrubs at his face. “I destroyed her trust.”

He’s nothing if not brutal toward himself. “I would say you _fractured_ it. It can still be salvaged. What you want to do is prove yourself before she has the chance to stop you.”

At last Phillip cracks a smile. “And how do I do that, Madam Machiavelli?”

“How averse are you to a little sleight-of-hand?”

* * *

“There he is. Get him!”

Phillip looks up from his tête-a-tête with Charity to see Helen dart of out a stall followed by Deng Yan. Both are armed – Helen with a blunt training foil, Deng with the real thing. “On guard!” Helen cries, levelling the tip of her weapon at Phillip.

He stares at the rounded point sticking into his stomach. “Ah,” he says, looking over at Charity. “Highway robbery?”

“Missus Barnum.” Deng makes a swooping bow, a daring endeavour from her four-inch heels. Her long legs are bare to the hip, overshadowing the rather scandalous arrangement of Charity’s skirts. “Forgive us, but Lady Helen overheard a plot in the making. It is her sacred duty as Captain of the Circus Guard to investigate.”

“You’re going to win back Anne!” Helen beams at Phillip over the length of the foil. She doesn’t seem to associate her weapon with anything other than joy. “Can we be part of it? Please?”

“Helen, haven’t I told you not to eavesdrop?” Charity scolds. “Where did you learn such awful behaviour?”

“Walter.” Helen jiggles the foil, and Phillip clutches it. He’s ticklish; God willing Barnum won’t ever find out. “I’m sorry, Mommy, but we want to help. We can keep a secret.”

Charity smiles at Phillip. “Speak, knave,” Deng says, whipping her sword forward. The sharp tip pauses half an inch from Phillip’s left temple. “Do not deny the lady.”

“Deng.” Phillip speaks with a stiff jaw. “Don’t sneeze.”

“Give way, and you will not be harmed.”

Helen giggles. Phillip winces as the tip of Deng’s blade taps lightly against his temple. “Take it easy, my skull’s not as thick as you’re probably thinking.”

“So what is your answer?”

Phillip glances at Charity, careful not to move his head. “I guess I don’t have a choice. They know our secret.”

“Yay!” Helen throws her arms up and accidentally smacks Phillip under the chin with the foil. “Can we do it now? Please?”

Deng smiles at him with white teeth. “You’re a swordswoman, right?” Phillip says, pushing the tip of the sword away. “Not a demonic bouncer?”

Deng expertly raps his knuckles with the flat of the sword. “I take it we have a deal?”

“Yes, we have a deal.” Phillip stifles a groan. “Pass the word: rehearsal in twenty. And since you know…pass the other word too.”

He’s not honestly sure how they all manage to be in the know by the time they assemble, but there’s no mistaking the fact that they are. Except for Anne, everyone looks like conspirators in a massive prank. Everyone except W.D.; he just looks like a conspirator in an assassination plot.

Lettie is the last one to the ring. She touches his shoulder, and to his relief, her eyes are shining. “Good for you, Carlyle,” she whispers. “I knew you were better than that.”

He crooks a smile back. “Thanks,” he murmurs as Lettie takes her seat.

“Before we start rehearsal, Charity has an announcement to make.” Phillip motions to her, and she stands, still in her stall-mucking arrangement.

“I know you all miss Phineas being here.” Charity strokes her daughters’ hair; Caroline gazes up at her with an expression too old for her face. “But I’m sure once Miss Lind’s schedule is organised he’ll be back as ringmaster.

“In the meantime, he has a ticket to the theatre that he can’t use. Considering his absence, I thought it would be nice to give one of you a chance to go.”

Hushed excitement stirs throughout the ring. It’s not fake. For most of them, they’re excited for the punchline. Anne clutches her elbows, her face drawn in anxious anticipation. “There’s only one fair way to do this,” Phillip says, feeling as much a charlatan as Barnum himself. He holds up Barnum’s top hat, the one the man reserves for shows. “Name draw.”

Now Anne looks like she might actually be sick. Phillip rustles the blank slips of paper inside the hat for effect. “Somebody give me a drumroll,” he says, and instantly two dozen feet stomp in unison. “The winner…is…”

He holds up an unmarked slip of paper. “Anne,” he says, barely managing her name. “The winner is Anne.”

She makes a sound that Caroline once made turning a sharp corner in squeaky new shoes. “I can’t,” she gasps, half-collapsing against W.D. “I can’t accept this.”

Phillip has one wasted moment of abject panic before everyone jumps in with the same answer. Anne looks like a lost little girl amid the encouraging cacophony, her eyes bejewelled with wonderstruck tears. Phillip looks at Charity for reassurance, but she’s already kneeling in front of Anne, offering to lend her a dress and do her hair. Helen jumps up and down, screaming, “_Lucky Anne!_” and Caroline rushes Phillip, standing on his shoes while he dances them in a celebratory circle.

So it’s not such a bad day.

Until Jenny Lind shows up.

* * *

They’re almost halfway through the rehearsal when Phillip looks up and sees Barnum and Lind at the office window. The two of them look down on the rehearsal like wealthy patrons from an opera box. The hairs on Phillip’s arms rise. There’s a fleeting moment when he feels very low. Then the anger lifts him high.

“Who’s that?” Lettie demands, stopping next to him. Her lips tighten. “Did he bring _her_ here?”

“Keep going,” Phillip instructs, motioning Lettie away. “It’s just another audience member, okay?”

“It’s Lind.” Lettie gathers her skirts as the other Oddities begin to whisper among themselves. “Barnum’s newest _prima donna_.” She turns away, but not before Phillip catches the hurt in her eyes.

Thank God Charity and the girls already left. “It’s okay, she won’t stay long.” Phillip bases this conviction on Barnum’s recent scarcity. “Manny, give us that intro again. Guys, you know this, let’s show some enthusiasm.”

The band cues. While the Oddities go through the familiar number, Phillip slips away, leaving his clipboard and control in O’Malley’s hands. He climbs the stairs to the office. Barnum and Lind are still by the window, laughing and chatting like idle concert-goers. Phillip clears his throat and they both turn, and that is when he sees Lind’s hand on Barnum’s arm.

“Good morning, Miss Lind.” Phillip makes her a courteous bow. “I see you’ve come to take in our rehearsal.”

“Indeed, Mister Carlyle; what a marvellous little show you run.” Lind’s voice is lilting and liquid. She holds out her hand, and Phillip kisses it. “I see now why Phineas is enthralled with his work here.”

Enthralled? Phillip cocks an eyebrow at his boss. “That’s just the word I would have used,” he says. “What do you think, _Phineas_ – is it up to your standards?”

Barnum gives him an odd little look before turning back to the spectacle. “Looks like it,” he says, leaning on the window. “Lettie’s looking a bit lax, though. She okay?”

_She was fine until you showed up._ “I think she’s tired.” Phillip keeps his voice level. “There’s been a lot to do around here.”

“Sure.” Barnum pushes away from the window and smiles charmingly at Lind. “Jenny, will you excuse me a moment? I have to speak to O’Malley.”

Later, Phillip will find out that Barnum arranged to have fifteen percent of their gate funnelled directly into Jenny Lind’s tour. What hurts the most is that Barnum didn’t even consult him. _It comes out of my ninety, not your ten, _he says later, as if that makes it any better. “Of course,” Lind demurs. “We can surely have an animated discussion in our own right, can’t we, Mister Carlyle?”

Phillip concurs with some senseless gallantry he’s used a dozen times before, and Barnum disappears.

Despite Lind’s assertion, she says nothing for a while, choosing instead to gaze down at the Oddities. “I hope you’ll pardon the liberty,” Phillip says at last, “but it’s good Barnum stepped out. I was hoping to speak to you alone.”

Lind turns, and he can’t help but admire the sinuous curve of her neck. “Not at all,” she returns. “Always a pleasure, I’m sure.”

“I hope so, Miss Lind.” Phillip hesitates, rubbing his palms together. This has been preying on his mind ever since he introduced Barnum to Lind in London – ever since that first meeting, so heavy with fragranced insinuations and half-desperate charm. “Again, I apologise for the liberties I’m about to take. This is not easy for me.”

“Why, Mister Carlyle, if I didn’t know better I would say you sound smitten. Either that,” Lind says, her eyes laughing, “or you want an autograph.”

“Neither, ma’am.”

“Then what? Speak freely; I’m not a fainting damsel.”

“Very well.” Phillip sucks in a deep breath. “Miss Lind, I’m afraid you may have misconstrued Barnum’s intentions.”

Lind arches one perfectly-shaped brow.

“I understand the quandary,” Phillip goes on. “P.T.’s charm is…inhuman. I very much doubt he grasps the implications of using it.” He hesitates, but what the hell, give me freedom or give me death. “On my own first meeting with him, I was the victim of a…shall we say, a similar _misunderstanding_.”

“Dear me.” Lind sounds more amused than shocked. “Does the lauded Phillip Carlyle find no succour in woman’s bosom?”

Phillip blushes as he hasn’t done in two months. The circus cares so little about his oddity, except to jibe him lovingly now and then, that he’s forgotten how strange it is. “He does,” he returns, “but the succour of a well-shaped man is also enticing.”

“And Phineas is an extremely well-shaped man.”

“I assure you I harbour no feelings for him but friendship.”

“But?”

“But I wasn’t exactly a monk when he met me, and he could charm a lion into going vegan. Thank God I understood my mistake before I did anything mortifying.”

Lind rearranges her skirts and sits. Her hands descend lightly on her lap, one perched on the other. “Most intriguing,” she allows. “But I fail to see what moral I am to glean from your cautionary tale.”

“We’re speaking freely.”

“I do beg you.”

“Miss Lind, I fear you harbour the kind of feelings for P.T. that I never did.” Phillip meets her eyes from his useless advantage of height. “And I feel obligated to tell you that he will never, never return those feelings.”

Lind cocks her chin at an odd angle. The peculiar motion is at once self-possessed and brooding, and the view of her jawline commanding. “I’m not naïve,” she says contemplatively. “Do you imagine I could be – a performer of my calibre and experience?”

“Not at all. That’s why I’m warning you. P.T. has manipulated some of New York’s craftiest bankers into financing this circus, and they were left scratching their heads in the aftermath. If I didn’t have first-hand experience with P.T.’s warmth, I would almost say he’s a…”

Phillip can’t voice it, that word so horrifying and cold, not of P.T. Barnum, because _I love him_ he likes him and _I need him _Barnum’s a good friend, but since London there it’s been, like a chilled slimy mass in the pit of his stomach.

“He loves his wife and children,” is all Phillip says. “He’s thoughtless sometimes, I know that, but he’s faithful too, and he would never intend to lead you on.”

“I am not a tramp. Do you imagine I would willingly bear a man’s lovechild?”

“God forbid, Miss Lind!” Phillip’s cheeks flush again. Has he gotten so bad at talking to highbred ladies that this is the result? “You asked me to speak freely.”

“And this is what I glean from it.”

“I’m concerned, that’s all. I see the way you…” Phillip almost clamps a hand over his mouth. “I mean, you seem to have suddenly grown very attached to him, and I’m worried it’s because of the way he spoke to you in London. The way he’s been speaking to you ever since.” _Like a man seducing a woman. Dear God, does he not see?_

For a few moments, Lind doesn’t speak. Then, “You believe me to be smitten with him.”

“I only ask that you look inside yourself and ask the question. I feel no animosity toward you…” And now he’s a liar. “…but I do feel jealousy on behalf of P.T.’s family – and, I’ll admit, the circus. He used to be ardently devoted to both. Now he’s more like a memory.”

“You realise you were the one to introduce us.”

Her words are pincers on an exposed nerve. “Miss Lind, I would never have dared that _faux pas_ on my own initiative. He’s using you – benignly, like he uses everyone – to make a splash. Nothing more. I don’t intend to upset you. I just want to spare you and everyone else a broken heart.”

Lind smooths her creamy dress carefully. “A gentlemanly gesture,” she says, speaking to the red trim circling her wrists. “One which is ultimately unnecessary.” She raises her chin again. “I thank you for your concern, but from now on I believe Phineas and I will do our own negotiating.”

And then she adds, and this is what wrenches that nerve into a screaming knot, “If you doubt that his involvement with me has any underlying personal affection, then perhaps you should doubt it for yourself as well.”

It’s a blessed relief when Barnum finally returns.

* * *

“Phil, wait.” Barnum catches at Phillip’s arm, stalling him on his way back to the rehearsal. “Can I have a word?”

He sees the mistrust in Phillip’s eyes. It does more than hurt him – it scares him. When did he earn that? “Can we do this another time?” the young man asks quietly. “I have a rehearsal to run.”

“I know. I just wanted to say…I appreciate you.” Barnum is well aware of Jenny waiting in the carriage out front. Still, this has to be said. He might not have many more chances in the days to come. “I see how hard you’re working, and I don’t take it for granted.”

“Did Charity talk to you?”

Barnum doesn’t let Phillip have his arm back – not yet. He holds on, willing away the feeling that they are two boats drifting away on different currents. “Maybe she did,” he concedes. “So what? Can’t I agree with her?”

Phillip nods. “I have to go,” he says.

“Phillip.” Barnum hurries to get in front of him, bracing his hands on his partner’s shoulders. “Please try to understand. I’m…going to need a lot more from you in the next few months. I can’t explain it all now, but please understand…understand what Jenny Lind means to the circus.”

_To me_, he should really say. And why he feels the need to keep his plans a secret so long may have something to do with that look in Phillip’s eyes.

“I’ll do whatever you need me to do, P.T. You know I’ll be here.”

The loyalty should be pleasing. “I know you will,” Barnum says, reluctantly dropping his hands. “I trust you. The circus is in good hands.”

“When are you coming back?”

And there’s the guilt, vying with nervous excitement in the pit of his stomach. “Soon. I mean, I’ll do my best. I have big plans for Jenny…it’s going to be amazing, you’ll see…”

He’s not selling it. He wants so desperately for Phillip to understand, for Charity to understand, for the world to understand. But, somehow, he’s not selling it. “I’m sorry again about yesterday,” he adds, wishing that episode of all things didn’t have to stand between them. “I was angry and I didn’t think. I want to know you’ll be okay.” _When I leave_.

“I’ll be fine.” Phillip finally allows him the smallest of smiles. “Stop apologising, you’ll wear out the words.”

“They’re worth wearing out.” _He _does_ look tired. But he’s young. I’m sure he’ll be fine._

“Barnum humbug.” Phillip crosses his arms, but it looks more like he’s hugging himself against a chill. “You should go to Miss Lind. She’s waiting for you.”

And of course he has to, because you can’t keep your star performer waiting. But before he goes, he touches Phillip’s shoulder one more time. “I’ll make it worth it,” he says. “You’ll see.”

_It’ll be worth it for all of us when I get to the top._

* * *

Barnum stops at the top of the stairs, listening to the giggles coming from the master bedroom. When did he last bask in that sound? It helps to ease his troubled mind; Phillip did not like the news of the expanded Jenny Lind tour, and it’s eating at him. In truth, he doesn’t believe in long goodbyes – they should be quick and intense, like rockets, and he did his best to blast off earlier in appropriate fashion.

But he didn’t even shake Phillip’s hand on the way out, and surely that’s wrong.

He heads for the bedroom. There’s no telling what three females will get up to when the only male has cleared out. He knocks at the closed door and all giggling stops. Then, from the region of the keyhole, Caroline pipes, “Who is it?”

“Daddy.” Barnum says it just to hear the way it sounds; tonight he and Charity will have to break the news that he is leaving, and he doesn’t know when he will next hear that word. “What’s going on in there?”

“A makeover.” Caroline’s voice turns strict. “Are you going to make fun of us?”

“Absolutely not.” Barnum rests his palm against the door that separates him from his family. “Let me in?”

There’s a pause, a whispered conferral. “You may enter,” Caroline announces, and he twists the knob.

What greets him on the other side is first a shock and then a stab at his conscience. He’s all but forgotten about Phillip’s clandestine date tonight. “Miss Wheeler,” he says, making her an elaborate bow. “You look ravishing.”

Anne blushes deeply. Her hair is expertly twisted into a fancy bun, light dashes of makeup accentuating her creamy skin. She stands tall and willowy in Charity’s green silk dress, every inch a lady in the making. “Thank you,” she almost whispers. “I’m so nervous I think I might die.”

Barnum holds out his hands. She slips her slender fingers into his palms. “You’re going to love it,” he promises. “All you have to do is hold your head high and not kick the seat in front of you.”

Charity smiles sadly at him. She’s counting the hours now. He lifts Anne’s hands in a whimsical pose and she laughs, ducking her head before his admiring expression. “I’ve never worn a dress so fine,” she admits, giving Charity a shy look. “Mama would just about faint.”

“It fits you so well.” Charity arches a brow at Barnum. “Before I had the girls it fit _me_ just like that.”

“I have no comment on that.” Barnum lowers Anne’s hands, squeezing them gently before releasing her. “Except that I love my wife and she is the jewel of my eyes, no matter what dress she does or does not fit into.”

“Good man.” Charity smooths a stray hair into place on Anne’s dark head. “Lovely girl, you’re going to turn some heads tonight.”

“I hope not,” she murmurs, and Barnum wishes they could tell her she won’t be alone, that he would never agree to send her out without someone to watch over her.

He watches as Helen, standing on a chair, adds a dab or two of powder to Anne’s face. “When you get to the theatre, it’s simple,” he says. “Go to the ticket box and say that I left you a ticket. Then you can go in and find your seat.”

“I appreciate this so much.” Anne’s voice trembles, desire and fear mingling poignantly. “I never thought I’d be going to the theatre dressed up so fancy.”

“You deserve it.” Barnum has a sudden powerful wish to be around to stick around to see how this turns out. He’s seen Phillip go through so much to get to this point. But things are as they are. “Have fun tonight. And if anyone says anything to you, ignore them. O’Malley will drop you off and pick you up. If you have any problems, let him know.”

“If I have any problems, W.D.’ll just about lose his head.” Anne turns away from the mirror. Caroline and Helen beam at her from either side. “I suppose I should be going. I don’t want to be late.”

Charity hugs her. “Are you sure you don’t want me to see you to the theatre? It would be no trouble.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, Missus – I mean, Charity,” Anne corrects at her mock-stern look. “You’ve done so much for me already.” She turns next to Barnum, and his throat tightens at the raw gratitude in her doe eyes. “Mister Barnum…”

“Enough of that.” He waves at the door. “Go on.”

Caroline and Helen dart out of the room, chattering excitedly as Anne follows in their wake. Before she crosses the threshold, she stands on tiptoe and rests the flutter of a kiss on Barnum’s cheek. “Thank you anyway,” she whispers. “Don’t stay away too long, y’hear?”

She hurries out.

Barnum sits on the bed, sinking down into the plush mattress. He feels three times as heavy and five times as old. “The ticket wasn’t my idea,” he says to no one in particular.

Charity observes him from where she leans her back against the wall. “Are you sure you want to leave this?” she asks softly.

When he says nothing, she goes to him. He rests his head in the cleft of her bosom and tries not to think about where he’ll be in twenty-four hours.

* * *

He wakes up with the dream again.

It’s almost four in the morning when he finally makes it back to bed. He stumbles exhaustedly into the bedroom and collapses next to Charity, not even bothering to get out of his clothes.

“Mm. Phin?” She stirs groggily, her slim lines lost under the coverlet. He lays a hand on her exposed neck and admires the soft unblemished creaminess, luminescent in the faint moonlight through the curtains.

“I’m here.” He whispers it like a secret, his breath moving her hair. “I’m sorry I woke you.”

“What time is it?”

“Too late.” He presses his nose to her ear, breathing in her delicate scent. He nudges her hair aside so his lips can rest in the hollow behind her jaw, and she turns into it.

“Phin.” She whispers his name back, looking over her shoulder at his rumpled form. “Were you out all this time?”

“Some of it.” He sighs against her throat, sending a shiver through her. “It’s okay, it’s fine.”

She turns into him, fitting neatly against his body. “Was it the dream again?” she asks against his mouth. “Talk to me.”

He presses her down, comforting in the softness of her curves, the readiness of her embrace. “I don’t want to talk,” he says huskily. “I just want to feel you.”

She beseeches him with her hands as he brushes transitory kisses over her jaw. “Phineas, please, I’m worried. You haven’t been yourself for a while, and now you're going away again. Tell me what’s going on in your head.”

“Tomorrow.” He speaks against the crest of her collarbone. “Please, Chairy, tomorrow. Tonight I need you.”

She draws him to herself. “You have me, Phin. You always will.”

“Even when it’s tomorrow?”

She kisses him, long and slow. “Even when it’s tomorrow,” she murmurs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter up Monday September 23rd!


	5. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which W.D. comes around and Phillip learns a new trick for an old problem.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the comments and kudos, my lovely readers! This was up late in the day, but it got up at long last. Please enjoy!

It’s been another sleepless night. Anne rises from her bed, moving on tiptoe to avoid waking Lettie. She slips into a simple cotton dress and drapes her shawl over her shoulders. Then she glides toward the door.

“Still can’t sleep, you silly girl?”

Anne stops with her fingertips on the doorknob. “I’m just going to practise,” she whispers.

Lettie’s eyes peek slyly at her from under the covers. “Lettie, don’t,” Anne warns.

“It’s been three days. You’ve put him through enough hell. At least talk to the poor boy.”

“I said all I needed to after the theatre.” _You’ve never had anyone look at you the way your parents looked at me – the way everyone would look at us_. She knows it’s not true. Phillip has suffered for what he is. And yet no one would pick him out of a crowd based on looks. “This is better for everyone.”

“You’re lying to the wrong lady.”

Anne opens the door. “See you at rehearsal,” she says.

“Where are you really going?”

“I told you, I’m practising.”

“You better be. Not out walking the streets by yourself.”

Anne smiles despite herself. “I might stop by the post office,” she admits.

“When it’s light,” Lettie says in a forbidding tone.

Anne sighs. “When it’s light,” she reluctantly agrees. “I’m not an idiot,” she adds as an afterthought.

“No, you’re not.” Lettie burrows deeper under the covers. “Just a silly, silly girl in love.”

* * *

A few blocks away, Phillip’s feet hit the cold floor. He dresses and pads out to the kitchen, easily navigating the familiar layout in the dark. He lights the stove and puts on some oatmeal, rubbing at his chilled arms while it cooks.

Charles appears, wrapped in a blanket, while he’s still eating from the saucepan. His hair sticks up in insolent tufts. “You’re up early,” he says.

“I have to make sure the protestors didn’t damage anything last night.” Phillip talks with his mouth full, too tired even to bother with manners. “They sounded pretty serious.”

“It’s four in the morning.”

“I know.” Phillip scrapes up the last of the oatmeal and leaves the saucepan in the sink. “You can go back to bed. Rehearsal’s not until ten.”

“I’m going with you.”

“What will you do at the circus for six hours?”

“What will _you_ do?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’ll do that.”

Phillip sighs. “Charles,” he says. “Don’t do like I do. You’re not management, you don’t have to kill yourself.”

“And management does? Was that part of the contract?”

Lately, he’s starting to wonder. “I know what you’re doing,” Phillip says, brushing at his hair. The reflection in the kitchen window doesn’t show him anything he wants to see. “But I _am_ capable of walking to the circus by myself.”

“It’s still dark out.”

“I know you fancy yourself my guardian angel. But, Charles...you’re an imp.”

“That’s General Imp to you.”

They walk to the circus together.

Phillip paces the circus exterior as grey tinges the sky, trailing his hand over the wall’s familiar chips and grooves. Everything looks fine until he comes across one of the upper windows smashed in by a rock. He goes inside and sweeps up the mess, then finds a few boards and patches the window. He can hear Charles singing in his high voice as he spreads fresh sawdust over the arena floor.

And that’s how he sees Anne and the strange man, through a crack in the boards.

He’s at the stairs before he knows it, blood galloping through his veins. He takes them in three long jumps and doesn’t even feel the landing. He halts inside the front doors for one gasping second, just long enough to suck in a steadying breath, and tries to imagine what Barnum would do.

Nothing comes to him, damn his panic-addled brain.

He opens the door and ends up jerking it right out of Anne’s hand. She stares at him, head flung back. Behind her the man hurries through the fog. “Don’t tell him it’s me,” she whispers, slipping past him. A shiver of delight ripples his skin as she brushes his side. “Please, Phillip, I’ll explain later.”

He closes the door as she hurries away, chin tilted up. His heart hammers in his chest. “Good morning, sir,” he says as the man approaches, keeping one hand firmly on the latch behind him. “No shows today, I’m afraid.”

The man stops on the top step. “Are you Mister Barnum?” he asks. The timbre of his rich Southern accent warps strangely in the light fog.

“No, I’m his partner, Phillip Carlyle.” Phillip speaks evenly despite his growing anxiety. _Don’t let me have an attack now, sweet Lord, please not now. _“Is there something I can do for you?”

“That young lady,” the man says. He’s tall and amply built, well-dressed, but his face is worn. “The acrobat. Is her name Annabelle Dunn?”

“I’ve never heard of it.” Phillip’s voice is reedy and strained. “Why do you ask?”

“I’m looking for Annabelle Dunn.” The man hesitates, looks past Phillip at the door, then back at him. He extends a hand. “Thomas Hayley, sir. A pleasure.”

With his free hand Phillip shakes; his other one is still clamped on the latch. “I assure you we have no Annabelle Dunn here,” he asserts. “Perhaps you’ve mistaken our performer for another. There are several sideshows in the city…”

“She was the spitting image.” Hayley looks past him again – and where has he heard that name? “I saw her on the billboards.”

_I’ll burn them all by sunset_. “Well, I’m afraid I must excuse myself,” Phillip says, pushing at the latch. “We’re very busy…”

“May I at least see her? I need to be sure…I would do her no harm …”

“Mister Hayley,” Phillip says as cordially as he can bear, “many of our performers have an aversion to outside contact. Miss Wheeler is one of them. I’m afraid I can’t allow it.”

Hayley reaches into his pocket. Phillip tries not to stare as the man pulls out several bills of a larger-than-common currency. They can use the money. Oh, can they ever. “For your trouble,” Hayley says, holding the bills out. His hand is close enough for Phillip to see the liver spots dotting his veins. “And your kindness.”

Phillip steps back. The door sighs open. “She’s not available,” he repeats. “I’m sorry, sir, but we’re closed.”

He steps in and shuts the door in Hayley’s face. Then he leans his forehead against the painted wood. That feeling of panic is back, thundering along his ribs in a death-beat. Breathe, breathe, just breathe…

He becomes slowly aware of Charles standing by his leg. He’s patting Phillip’s thigh, saying things one would say to a jittery horse. “You okay, man?” he asks when Phillip finally raises his head.

“Fine,” Phillip croaks. “Where’s Anne?”

“Freaking out somewhere else. Shit, what happened?”

“I have no idea.” Phillip pushes away from the door and locks it firmly. “No one gets in without my knowing about it.”

“Yes, sir,” Charles says, saluting. For once there’s no trace of mockery in his face. “Whatever you say, boss.”

Phillip trots through the halls, panning back and forth. At the sound of muted speech he turns toward Lettie’s room. She and Anne are sitting on the bed together. W.D. is kneeling by his sister, clad in nothing but his trousers. Anne has her head bent to his bare shoulder. He cradles her.

W.D. looks up; their eyes meet. For a breathtaking moment Phillip sees nothing but anguished fury. Quickly he breaks eye contact and heads toward the office, his boots clipping sharply.

He can hear W.D. coming up behind him. He quickens his pace, but W.D. is fast. Just inside the office Phillip spins to face his pursuer, catching himself against Barnum’s desk. “I know you’re not happy with me,” he starts. W.D. stops in the doorway, eyes blown wide. “But out there…”

“Shut up.” W.D.’s hands tremble at his sides. “I got somethin’ to say.”

Phillip clamps his mouth shut. W.D. brushes at his red eyes with the heel of his hand. “That was our old owner,” he says brokenly. “Thomas godforsaken Hayley.”

Phillip swallows. _So that’s where I heard the name._

“He used to own us, near ten years ago.” W.D. looks off to the side, fighting for control; his lips quiver. “Anne was only thirteen when we ran. Old enough to be a fancy girl – you know what that is?”

“Yes,” Phillip whispers.

“I got her away after Mama died – wasn’t long after they started the War.” W.D.’s eyes are distant. “We ended up in no place good. Then we found this one. I always told Annie she had nothin’ to worry about, ‘cause I would look out for her. But today I didn’t.” W.D. finally looks at him. “Today you did.”

Phillip looks down at his shoes. He can’t bear that expression in W.D.’s eyes, that fractured confession of failure. “Coincidence,” he mutters. “It could have been anyone.”

“But it wasn’t.” W.D. doesn’t come any closer. From respect or uncertainty, Phillip doesn’t know. “It was you. And I’ve been a damn fool.”

“That’s not true.” Phillip raises his head with a weak smile. “You’ve been a good big brother.”

“I’ve been a damn fool_ and _a good big brother.” W.D. smiles a little, and all the old animosity caves in like a disused mine. “You ain’t no fighter, but you did good. You stood your ground. And takin’ Anne out to the theatre…maybe it didn’t work, but that took guts. More than most men would have.”

“I’m on her side.” Phillip speaks softly. “And I’m on yours.”

“I know.” W.D. holds out his hand, and Phillip takes it. White palm to brown, letting the grip ground him. “Just didn’t want to admit it, maybe. But if you’ll be there for her, I’ll be there for you. Deal?”

“Deal.” They shake on it. “He’ll be back,” Phillip adds as W.D. releases his hand. “We’ll have to keep an eye out – for your sake too.”

“I’m not worried.” W.D. smiles grimly. “He’s comin’ up against a whole circus full of fighters. Lord have mercy on his white ass.”

They share a tired laugh. And Phillip thinks, someday, he might even get up the nerve to ask him about Annabelle Dunn.

* * *

“Good afternoon.” Phillip whips off his hat, pressing it to his breast. Behind him Charles sits at the bottom of the steps. He was loath to leave the circus after the incident this morning, but he has no choice. “May I speak to the doctor?”

“Certainly, sir…” The maid’s eyes light on Charles, and she stops. “Is that boy with you?”

“Young man,” Phillip corrects, his heart sinking. “Yes, he’s with me.”

“I’m sorry.” The maid moves away, her face shuttered. “The doctor is busy.”

“Ma’am, please.” Phillip shoves his shoulder in the crack, earning an indignant glare. “It’s urgent that I see him.”

“I tell you…”

“My name is Phillip Carlyle,” he pushes on. “Doctor Fulthom used to treat me as a boy. Please, will you at least tell him I’m here? Please?”

The maid’s lips tighten. But she knows her place. “Very well, sir,” she says coldly, releasing the door. “Wait here.”

Phillip runs the brim of his hat through his fingers as she clips disdainfully away. “Ain’t gonna work,” Charles says from the bottom step.

“Shut up, Charles,” Phillip says reflexively.

“You heard her. He’s _busy_.”

“He’s a good man.” Phillip’s foot taps out a nervous beat. “He’ll see us.”

Charles ricochets a pebble off the rail with a _ping_.

Minutes pass. Charles reclines on one of the steps, propping his hat over his eyes. Phillip restlessly drums out a beat on the brim of his hat, checking his pocket-watch every thirty seconds or so. Finally, just as he is thinking about storming in, masculine footsteps approach from inside.

The face framed by the lintel is familiar, if a decade or so older than he remembers. “Phillip,” Tobias Fulthom says softly. His moustache is silvering, but his hair is barely touched. “Good heavens, I haven’t seen you since you were a lad.”

“Hello, Doctor.” Phillip can’t help but smile. “It’s good to see you again.”

“Likewise, Phillip, likewise.” Fulthom hesitates, glancing past him at a recumbent Charles. “What can I do for you?”

“My friend here is experiencing some pain.” Phillip’s tone is polite but unyielding. “We’ve tried several other doctors, but none of them could help us. I was hoping you would be willing.”

“Ah, Phillip.” Fulthom smiles a little then. “Forgive me, but to hear you speak…You’ve grown so much.”

Mercifully, Charles makes no comment.

Fulthom clears his throat. “I would be pleased to help,” he says, and Phillip’s heart sinks lower. “However…”

“You’ve heard of my change of fortunes, I imagine.” Phillip tries to smile charmingly. “I assure you, word of your association with the circus would never leave my lips.”

“Heaven forbid.” Fulthom looks at him wryly. “What I meant was your parents. I remain their physician, and it’s come to my attention – though I’m unpartisan – that you’re at odds with them.”

“That’s nothing new,” Phillip says, trying and failing to laugh it off. “I’ve been disappointing them for years.”

“I’m well aware.” Fulthom gazes at him sadly. “I sympathise with your plight, Phillip. But the things I’ve heard over the years don’t invite the sympathy of those around me.”

“Doctor. Please.” Phillip speaks lowly. “I’ve made mistakes – I know that. But I’ve paid for them and then some.” He gestures at Charles, whose fingers dig into his crossed arms. “You were the one who taught me the meaning of compassion. Do you think it’s fair to punish my friend for my mistakes?”

Fulthom looks down at Charles. His pale, freckled skin is carved with new lines, probably more from the unhappiness of others than from his own; his eyes are melancholic. “You always had a silver tongue,” he murmurs. “But your heart is made of gold. Very well, Phillip; I’ll examine your friend.”

“Thank you. Thank you.” Phillip turns eagerly to Charles. “Doctor Fulthom will see you, Charles.”

“I heard him.” Charles stands awkwardly, hat crushed between his hands. Mistrust darkens his eyes. “Do I have to?”

“Yes.” Phillip takes his sleeve and tugs him up the stairs. “Doctor Fulthom, meet Charles Stratton, the Barnum Circus’s very first performer.”

“A pleasure.” Fulthom extends his hand; Charles reluctantly takes it. “Shall we?”

Charles walks with his shoulder pressed to Phillip’s hip. The oaky, refined interior of the private clinic is pleasantly subdued, as if to reassure the visitor of the absurdity of panic. The low, pleasant smell of camphor wafts from the walls. Phillip hovers at the entrance to the examining room as Charles fidgets by the table. “I’ll just wait outside,” he hazards.

“_No_.” Charles almost turns on him. “You stay.”

“Okay, no problem.” Phillip keeps his tone calm; clearly Charles has some issue with doctors. He can imagine why. As a child, Charles was probably more like an exhibit than an actual patient. “It won’t hurt, will it, Doctor?” he adds to be reassuring.

“I should think not.” Fulthom moves with his usual doleful patience; his aura, too, proclaims the absurdity of hysteria. He smiles a little over his shoulder. “The very same question you always asked me as a boy.”

“And the very same answer you always gave me.”

“And?” Charles asks.

“And what?” Phillip returns.

“And is he full of shit?”

Fulthom blinks. “You’ll have to forgive Charles,” Phillip says, thinking he might not do that himself for a few days. “We ran out of soap for his mouth.”

“Think nothing of it.” Fulthom clasps his hands at his waist and gazes down at Charles benignly. “Shall we, my small friend?”

“Give me a boost,” Charles says to Phillip, ignoring Fulthom. Phillip makes a stirrup with his hands, and, to Fulthom’s surprise, Charles clambers onto the table.

“Two things,” Charles says when he gets his breath back. His face is scrunched with pain. “One, I’m twenty-two, so don’t talk to me like I’m a kid. Two, everything works, it’s just smaller, so no dumbass questions or I’m splitting.”

“He grows on you,” Phillip says in response to Fulthom’s incredulous look. “Like an infection, and then you either amputate or live with it.”

The examination itself takes about half an hour. Phillip watches closely for signs of distress, but Fulthom neither causes nor shows any. Charles silently submits to everything, his eyes occasionally finding Phillip’s across the room. When Fulthom at last straightens and steps back, his gaze is thoughtful.

“Remarkable,” he admits. “I have never had the privilege of examining someone with your condition.”

“Yeah? And what’s that?”

“Dwarfism. I must say you’re doing far more with yourself than I would have expected.” Fulthom turns to Phillip. “Wherever did you find him? A dwarf who can sing and dance?”

“That was my business partner, P.T. Barnum.” Phillip avoids Charles’ eyes. “Charles _is_ remarkable, but that’s not news to me. Why do his legs and back hurt?”

“Now _there_ is a question.” Fulthom leans back against his desk, looking at Charles mournfully. “I am not conversant in his condition, unfortunately. If I were, I could tell you whether or not this is normal.”

“Could it be his exertion at the circus?”

“Perhaps. Obviously his spine…” Fulthom stops himself and addresses Charles. “Obviously _your_ spine is under unusual stress due to your deformity.” Phillip flinches, but Charles absorbs the word without blinking. “I can’t say I’m surprised to discover complications.”

“Is there anything you can do?” Charles asks. “I mean, am I gonna die?”

“I very much doubt this will kill you,” Fulthom says gently. “You appear to have full range of motion, which is a good sign, and I can’t find any evidence of impending paralysis.”

“Thank God,” Phillip utters.

“My educated guess is that the pain is merely a result of your condition. Although why it should come on so suddenly is a mystery. I can’t rule out your work at the circus, obviously, although I hesitate to tell anyone to stop exercising.”

“So what should we do?” Phillip asks when Charles says nothing.

Fulthom thumbs his lip. “I have a colleague who is interested in cases of this sort,” he says at last. “I’ll write him and ask his advice. With your consent,” he adds to Charles.

Charles shrugs and nods. “Can’t hurt,” he says to Phillip. “I mean, I’m dead weight if I can’t work.”

“That’s not a conversation we’re having.” Phillip looks at Fulthom, touched by his troubled demeanour. “Thank you, Doctor; I appreciate your willingness to investigate this.”

“It’s my pleasure.” Fulthom smiles at Charles. “In the meantime, give your remarkable self a rest. I’ll be in contact as soon as I have any answers.”

“Thanks, Doc.” Charles swings his legs, head cocked. “Hey, can I ask you a question?”

“Anything.”

“Okay. If a guy was raped months ago and it healed, why would he still be freaking out?”

Every ounce of blood plummets from Phillip’s face into his toes. His muscles instantly lock. Fulthom pales, his eyes widening. “_Raped_,” he echoes. “Dear – dear me. A _male?_”

“Hey, look, we all know it’s possible. I’m just asking.”

Fulthom turns to Phillip. “Is this an ancillary problem?” he asks in a low voice.

“Certainly not.” Phillip speaks through numb lips. “To my knowledge, Charles has never suffered that.”

“Purely hypothetical, then? Forgive me for saying so, but I rarely find in these instances…”

“It’s him, okay?” Charles points at Phillip. “I’m not supposed to say anything, yeah, yeah, cry me a river. But he’s had two freak-outs now and we’re all kind of wondering why. So can you please check him out before I lose my mind?”

“I think it’s time we leave.” Phillip can’t obey his own idea. He’s frozen where he stands, shocks of ice and fire shooting his body. “Charles.”

“Phillip, is this true?” Fulthom sounds uncertain. But, above all, he sounds concerned.

“It healed and it’s fine.” Phillip’s breathing has sped up; if he has another episode in Fulthom’s office, he will well and truly murder Charles. “Please drop it.”

“I tell you what.” Charles has the gall to sound magnanimous. “You let him take a look and I _will_ drop it.”

“You don’t get to make those kinds of deals.”

“Really?” Charles gestures at himself. “I let you drag me around to every quack in the city. I was even _polite._” He doesn’t leave room for Phillip to scoff. Instead, he lowers his voice; the earnestness is genuine. “With Barnum gone, you’re all we have. If you can’t do your job, what’ll happen to us? What’ll happen to _Anne?_”

Charles doesn’t routinely get his way for no reason.

“It happened about three months ago.” Phillip speaks stiffly, braced on his elbows against the table. His skin feels far too exposed. “Everything’s fine now.”

“I see.” Fulthom’s mild voice hovers behind him. “And yet you’re experiencing episodes of…what would you call it? Panic?”

“Panic,” Charles agrees from his perch next to Phillip. He didn’t even offer to leave. And Phillip is grateful. He couldn’t possibly have maintained his dignity if he had to ask Charles to stay. “When he’s not even in real danger.”

Fulthom begins to work gently with his warm hands. Phillip’s entire body clenches. “This is completely unnecessary,” he forces out, his knuckles white on the table.

“Most likely, but it’s wise to cover our bases.” Fulthom’s voice is as sensible and reassuring as ever; his actions, however, are painfully terrifying. “Easy, Phillip; remember that I never hurt you in my life, and try to relax.”

Phillip tries. The harder he tries, the worse it gets. At last, the pain begins to ease and Fulthom straightens. “There’s considerable scarring,” he says, his soft professionalism masking his distress. “But the wounds have clearly healed. No pain?”

“Not much,” Phillip says through gritted teeth. “Just once in a long while, if I’ve been sitting too long.”

“Hm, yes, I imagine that’s normal.” Fulthom touches Phillip’s back gently. “You can put on your clothes now, Phillip.”

Phillip tugs his trousers up with shaking hands. His suspenders defeat him completely. “Here, let me,” Charles puts in, and Phillip obeys from sheer helplessness. “So, Doc, what’s wrong with him?”

To his credit, Fulthom doesn’t appear fazed by the reversal of roles. “Obviously you’ve never entirely healed from the mental distress,” he says to Phillip. His brow is furrowed. “In some way your mind is refusing to believe it’s safe.”

“What can I do?” Phillip murmurs.

“I would suggest as little stress as possible. Take a rest – go on holiday.”

Charles bursts out with harsh laughter. “That’s not an option right now, believe me,” he shoots back. “This guy’s working sunup to sundown and sometimes into the wee hours. It’s a one-man show these days.”

“What about your business partner?” Fulthom asks Phillip. “You say you work with Mister Barnum?”

“He’s out of town,” Phillip sighs, wishing he could make it not true. “On tour.”

“Oh, is that the Jenny Lind business? Goodness, I’d hardly made the connection.” Fulthom shakes his head. “Well, as far as I can see, your best recourse is to write your partner and tell him you’re unwell. Surely he’ll return, if only to save his business.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Ah, but you _can_ do that,” Fulthom says in his gentle, weary way. “Whether you _will_ is another matter.”

“I can’t ask him to abandon this project. You see, it’s important…” Phillip can’t even begin to explain how it’s important. He just knows it is. “I’m capable of working. I just have trouble with feeling trapped.”

“Are you afraid he won’t come back, Phillip?”

“Of course not!” The words burst out of Phillip before he can stop them.

“Are you afraid he will, then? That he’ll think you unfit for his business?”

That’s part of it, maybe, but it’s a far-off fear, something rumoured to be possible but not really expected. In truth, Phillip is terrified of discovering that Barnum’s circus and its members no longer weigh much in his scale of worth. He’s terrified that Jenny Lind is right, that Barnum’s interest in him is nothing more than a passing fad.

He’s terrified that the circus will close and he’ll be a freak without a home.

Fulthom sighs. “Well, you have my advice,” he says, unwrapping his stethoscope from around his neck. “At the very minimum, you must find a way to alleviate your stress. If you’re truly running the circus on your own – and I can only imagine the myriad concerns that entails – then you will have to consider your health of primary importance. As Mister Stratton so eloquently voiced, without you the whole thing may come to an end.”

“Never,” Phillip says passionately. “I won’t let that happen.”

“Then be wise in your actions.” Fulthom smiles tiredly. “You knew how to do that, once. I suggest relearning that skill.”

Before they leave, Phillip tries to settle accounts, to no avail. “I did nothing, Phillip.” Fulthom clasps his hand warmly. “I merely visited with an old friend. Consider yourself financially unobligated.”

Phillip clasps him back. “You’re a good man,” he says sincerely. “Thank you for seeing Charles. You’ve already eased my mind. And thank you for seeing me too. I know you’ve eased his.”

“Godspeed, Phillip.” Fulthom holds the door for them. “Whether your parents believe it or not, they’ve raised a good man.”

* * *

Phillip arrives at the stables that evening exhausted and worn. He leans on a partition as the head trick-riders, a trim little pair of Spaniards, chat over the backs of two Arabians. Their rapid, rolling accents are pleasing to the ears, and he stands smiling at them until they take notice.

“Hey, Philo!” The husband, Rayco, gives him a sharp wave with his currycomb. “You look how I feel, man.”

“I pity you, then.” Phillip nods at Rayco’s wife. “How are they tonight?”

Yasmin flashes him a bright smile. “Lovely,” she affirms, her dark bun bobbing with her vigorous currying. “Except for Flick – he’s not so happy.”

“Oh?”

“He’s grumpy.” Yasmin nods at the stall across the way; Flick’s white rump is all that’s showing. “But he’s pretty when he’s mad.”

Phillip chuckles. “He’s an Arabian,” he says. “Is he ever not pretty?”

Yasmin’s eyes twinkle over the elegant back of Helen of Troy. Helen Barnum is irrevocably smitten with the mild-mannered Arabian, understandably so. “Do you know what your name means?” she asks, rather coyly. “I only ask because your eyes are so nice.”

Her tripping accent has beguiled more than one performer. “Friend of horses,” Phillip says, watching the subtle ripple of Helen’s sleek muscles. “Not that my parents had aspirations. A Greek name in my family is more for show.”

“But you ride, no?” Rayco studies him curiously with dark eyes that are, for a man like Phillip, equally beguiling. “You would be nimble – very good, I think.”

“Mm, yes, I do ride.” Phillip strokes Helen’s silky muzzle. “Or I did. It’s been a few years.”

Rayco waves that off. “You never forget.”

Yasmin catches her husband’s eye, and for a moment they hold one of those inaudible lovers’ conferences. “Are you going home now?” she asks, her gaze slipping slyly back to Phillip. “Or are you still working?”

“It depends. What do you want to trick me into doing?”

They both laugh musically in the dusty air. “No tricks, my friend,” Rayco says, finishing his currying with a final swipe. “But you can certainly help us.”

“Flick likes you.” Yasmin nods at the sulking horse. “Will you let him have a few rounds in the ring? Please, Philo – you like him too.”

“Of course I like him.” Phillip’s body protests. He’s calmed down since the examination, but he’s still edgy. “But I don’t want to risk injuring him. Like I told you, I’m rusty.”

“Oh, you won’t hurt him. He knows what to do. Just let him have a little fun.” Yasmin bats her doe eyes. “Please, Philo? It will be good for you – look at you, so alone and sad. Philo? Please?”

He really should have banished that nickname when it first appeared. “How do I stop her?” he asks Rayco. “There must be a way.”

“There is no way, only surrender.” Rayco nods at Flick. “It will relax you. Go on, make him happy. You’ll sleep better tonight.”

Phillip knows it’s true. Riding a horse is cathartic in and of itself, no matter how boring the pace. And it’s more or less doctor’s orders. Sighing, he detaches himself from the partition. “If he throws me, that’s it,” he warns as he heads for the tack room. “No more circus.”

“We’ll keep it alive in your memory,” Rayco calls merrily after him. “Now take your medicine so we can all be happy.”

Yes, Charles has definitely talked. Phillip finds an unembellished set of working tack and heads back to Flick’s stall. The Arabian gives him a half-interested look over his muscled shoulder before snorting resignedly. Well, they can be grumpy together.

“You’ll like it, I promise.” Phillip speaks soothingly as he slips the bridle over Flick’s nose and ears. The horse grudgingly accepts the bit between his teeth. “I’m an easy rider. Or at least I used to be.”

He tests the saddle girth with three fingers, then tightens it another notch. When he’s satisfied that he won’t be sent sliding he leads Flick out, receiving a disgruntled bump on his shoulder for his efforts. “Don’t be rude, Flick,” Yasmin calls. Her tanned skin glows in the lamplight. “Make him behave, Philo. Otherwise, he will sass you all night.”

Phillip leads Flick into the ring. The lights are still up but the arena is hushed; occasionally a burst of laughter comes from the living quarters. He puts a foot into the stirrup and bounces lightly on one foot, then swings up with a grunt. With an ungraceful bump he settles into the saddle, eliciting an irate snort.

“Stop that, I am not fat,” Phillip mutters. Flick’s ears swerve front to back, catching his every intonation. “For your information, I’ve toned up.”

He nudges Flick’s sides and they launch into a quick trot. Phillip tries to loosen up and enjoy himself, but the impact of his arse against the saddle is sharp. He lets Flick have his head and concentrates on matching the unforgiving rhythm. To his surprise, he soon finds it.

They do four or five rounds like that, both of them feeling the other out. Rayco is right, he hasn’t forgotten a thing. He nudges Flick and they ease into a slow canter, rolling gently around the edges of the ring.

“Good. Now stand.” Rayco appears out of nowhere, a riding whip in his hand. He smiles at Phillip’s expression. “Not for use on you, my friend. Stand up, if you please. You’ve done it before?”

Phillip has. He totters at first but quickly finds his balance. Flick continues that slow, easy canter. “Now sit,” Rayco instructs. “And take your feet out of the stirrups.”

It’s not pleasant to swing one’s feet freely above the swiftly-moving ground, but he does it anyway. “Remember to grip with your thighs,” Rayco orders, tapping the whip lightly against his boot. Flick subtly adjusts to the ticking rhythm. “That’s what keeps you mounted.”

Phillip grips the pommel with both hands. Sweat has begun to roll down his back. “Now,” Rayco says in his rich accent, “close your eyes and spread your arms. It’s time to fly.”

Phillip obeys shakily. Everything tells him to be on guard, to stay alert, not to trust the horse. He resists. He listens to the dull thud of hooves, accepts the liquid rocking motion. And slowly everything that is tense and taut and worried in him begins to unravel. He tilts his head back to feel the wind of their speed and thinks of nothing but the smell of horse and the sound of peace.

“Perfect.” Rayco’s satisfaction is clear and simple. The whip stops tapping. “Now slow him down.”

Without opening his eyes Phillip finds the reins. Flick lopes a few more paces and then breaks into a trot, quickly easing into a walk. He puffs happily. Phillip’s cheeks hurt from smiling. _How about you show them a smile? _he hears Barnum say, so deeply missed, as clear as day. _That’ll be new._

When Flick puts down his hoof for the last time, Phillip sits still, almost afraid to speak. “I don’t want to open my eyes,” he says at last. “Am I in Neverland yet?”

“You are in a far better place, my friend.” Rayco is smiling too. “Go ahead, open your eyes. You are home.”

That night, Phillip sleeps like a baby.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Basically, the whole arc with W.D. and Phillip in this story, including all the slavery stuff, is a result of me wondering: "So when and why exactly did W.D. go from hating Phillip's guts in the movie to treating him like a bro?" And voila.
> 
> Next chapter up Monday September 30!


	6. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we have racism and family letters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all your kind comments! Please enjoy this next chapter!
> 
> Warning: Racism ahead.

“Oh, Phineas, I’m glad you’ve come early.” Jenny’s sultry voice greets him from the front hall. With nimble fingers she weaves a pearl hairpin into her burnished locks. “There’s a letter for you on the table.”

Barnum pauses at the mahogany buffet. The envelope there is addressed in a neat masculine hand. His stomach leaps, but the sensation is not pleasant. “It’s from Phillip,” he says, laying down his hat. “From home.”

Jenny’s lips compress. She turns her face away, but the tightening of her fingers on the hairpin is telling. Telling of what? Has Phillip offended her somehow – courteous, soft-spoken Phillip, whose polished mannerisms are Barnum’s guide? “Certainly you should open it,” she says to her reflection. “But perhaps after the concert, when you’re at your leisure.”

That’s far too offhand to be genuine. Barnum knows all the shades of manipulation; they constantly overlay his speech. But what does _her_ manipulation mean? “You’re right,” he demurs, tucking the envelope in the breast of his formal jacket. A letter from Charity and the girls came yesterday, the fourth since he left two weeks ago. He hasn’t opened it yet. Tonight, tonight. “Are you ready to go?”

“Perhaps I should ask my manager.” Jenny turns to him, smiling, and he sees the crowds leaping from their seats at the sight of her. “Am I ready, Mister Barnum?”

“They’ll fall at your feet.” Barnum offers his hand. “Shall we?”

But she hangs back. “And will you dance tonight?” she asks in her soft, implacable way. “They’re all beginning to wonder why you don’t.”

His hand wavers. “Ah, I don’t dance,” he laughs awkwardly. “I mean, not in that way.”

“Oh, truly?” Jenny arches a brow. “I’m told you’re the boast of the ballroom. By your daughters, no less.”

“It depends what you mean by ballroom.” Barnum’s smile strains his lips. “I’m afraid I’m not up on the latest steps.”

“You have a charming, vivacious wife of high breeding. What, indeed, could be lacking?”

“Charity hasn’t exactly been running in the circles she used to.” She taught him the dances that were current when they married; in the almost twenty years since, fashions have changed. “I mostly improvise when I find myself cornered.”

“Well, that simply won’t do.” Jenny comes to him, alighting a fluttering hand on his shoulder. Her emerald-studded eyes lift to his. “You know what vultures those people can be.”

For the first time since meeting her, something more than mere admiration stirs in him. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” he hedges, looking down into those merry green pools. “I’m sure to fall desperately short of your teaching.”

“Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.” Jenny smiles. “Do flatter me, Mister Barnum. It’s so diverting.”

Barnum can’t help smiling back. “Then I’m obliged to do it,” he says, slipping his hand into hers. Her skin is like a cool, airy kiss. “After all, you’re a lady and I’m a mere scoundrel.”

“Then we shall make a prince of you,” Jenny Lind decides, and leads him.

* * *

The thud of Flick’s hooves marks a steady rhythm that shudders up Phillip’s limbs. He dangles from one side of the saddle, his feet anchored in the trick saddle’s kossack loops. As the Arabian canters gently around the ring Phillip performs a steady series of crunches. Sweat reeks from every pore in his body; his arms glisten with it.

“Good, Philo, good.” Rayco observes the grueling exercise with approval. “You are getting very strong.”

Phillip bites back a retort and strains up to touch his knees. He flops back down, the ground moving inches from his head. And again. And again. And again.

“Now rest.” Rayco observes as Phillip relaxes with a moan, his knees still locked over the saddle. “Next is the Death Drag.”

“Please, not the Death Drag,” Phillip says under his breath.

“Yes, the Death Drag.” Rayco can pinpoint a soft fart in a packed arena; he can certainly pick up on a muted grumble. “Free your left ankle.”

“I outrank you,” Phillip grouches, obeying. His hands bunch over his stomach. “My funeral is coming out of your salary.”

“You will die happy, I see it in your eyes. Straighten your leg.”

Phillip does. “Holy _shit_,” he groans.

“Now bend it back.” Rayco nods as Phillip slowly draws his leg toward his face. “Excellent. A little more, my friend, and then hold it there.”

They’re not alone. Most of the performers sit in the stands, quiet at Rayco’s command. When Phillip first walked out in the tight crimson costume, arms bared to the shoulders, there was a veritable hail of whistles and catcalls. It’s good to know Barnum isn’t the only one who can heat up a room.

“You may lower your leg.” Phillip is so caught up in his screaming muscles that he almost misses the command. “_Slowly_, Philo, you will hurt yourself.”

Phillip breathes deeply as his leg rests. He taps Flick’s shoulder with his heel, once, and the Arabian immediately slows to a trot. Phillip manoeuvres himself back into the saddle and untangles his other foot. “Is that it?” he asks, reining Flick into a walk. He loves trick riding, there’s no doubt about it, but it’s as physically exhausting as it is mentally calming.

“For today.” Rayco smiles at him. “Well done, my friend. Cool down your boy and then wash him.”

Phillip guides Flick around the ring as the arena erupts in scattered applause. Angus starts hauling in the target-boards for the knife-throwers as the crowd breaks into chatter. As he always is after practise, Flick is satisfied, snorting expansively under Phillip’s praising pats.

He draws the horse to a halt when he sees W.D. leaning against a pillar nearby. The man is as laconic as ever, but there’s a new friendliness to his words when he does speak. “Lookin’ good,” W.D. calls. “And I don’t mean your ass.”

Phillip laughs wryly. “I don’t know how you perform comfortably in these suits,” he says, tugging at his neckline. It’s far too low for a gentleman, low enough to expose the length of his collarbone. “The fabric is fine, but the cut leaves something to be desired.”

“Somethin’ to be desired and nothin’ to be imagined,” W.D. grins. “Anne’s imagining a few things, though, I think.”

Phillip flushes. “I didn’t think she noticed,” he lies, glancing over at the stands. Anne sits between the Albino Twins; Farah is talking animatedly while Fay examines Anne’s foot tattoo. Nora Hildebrandt has more business coming to her, by the looks of it.

“Oh, she noticed.” W.D. pushes upright and approaches Flick, patting his neck firmly. “Gonna perform someday?”

“I have my hands full with ringleading, thanks. This is just…” Exercise? Therapy? Sanity? “Play,” he finishes. “I’m just playing. It relaxes me.”

He’s still stressed. He’s still overworked. But he hasn’t had an attack since he started trick riding, and that’s more than enough justification to do it.

“That’s good,” W.D. says. “Just askin’.”

“Doesn’t hurt to ask.” Phillip dismounts slowly in deference to his shaking legs. “Listen, W.D., can I ask _you_ something?”

“Doesn’t hurt,” W.D. fires back.

Phillip leads Flick off and W.D. keeps step on the other side. “Was Anne’s original name Annabelle Dunn?”

W.D. doesn’t answer until they reach the stables, and Phillip is afraid he’s offended him. Then, “Yeah, it was. Mama and I never called her Annabelle, though; she was always Anne or Annie to us.”

“It’s…nice,” Phillip ventures, unsure what to say. “Very…Southern.”

“I don’t put _nice _and _Southern_ together much.” W.D. draws a bucket of water as Phillip replaces Flick’s work tack with a halter. “Anyway,” he continues as he hauls over the bucket, “it wasn’t Mama that named Anne. It was _him_.”

“Hayley?”

W.D. tosses him a soaked sponge and together they begin to scrub Flick down. “Mama couldn’t say no. And maybe Annabelle _is _a nice name when you take the chains off it.”

“What about Dunn?”

“That was my Mama’s last name. She and my Daddy never married; they were sort of bred, if you know what I mean, and it never got made legal. Anyway, later on he got his foot mangled in a bear trap and it infected. I was two when he died of it – least that’s what they told me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Didn’t know him from Adam.” W.D. shrugs. “I was goin’ on six when ol’ Mister Hayley got Mama with child.”

Phillip’s hand stills. “It sounds like you’re saying Hayley is Anne’s natural father,” he says.

“Natural, unnatural, call it what you want.” W.D. dips the sponge again and moves to Flick’s shoulder. “I hit Hayley when I saw him go for Mama, and that was the first of the scars on my back. By the Lord’s mercy he didn’t sell me; I guess he saw I would grow up strong.”

Phillip rubs slowly at the beads of water on Flick’s sweat-gray side. Hayley hasn’t showed his face since he was turned away, although Constantine swears he saw him once, watching from a distance. “Was Hayley fond of Anne?” he asks.

“Fond.” W.D. sucks his teeth for a moment. “Yeah, I guess you could say that.”

Phillip waits. Finally, W.D. says, “He had his eye on her, if you know what I mean. She was always real sweet in the face, especially when she hit eleven or twelve. See, a lot of men down there like a nice brown girl to keep ‘em company. Anne was a house slave ‘cause she was so pretty and had Hayley’s blood, and the fields hadn’t ruined her. Lord, the things Missus used to do to my poor girl.”

“Jealousy,” Phillip murmurs.

“Everyone knew Hayley had a wandering eye, not to mention what he did with his hands or other things. And he started thinkin’ Anne would make a good fancy girl when she got old enough.”

“How old is old enough?”

“’Bout thirteen if the girl’s grown. Anne was always thin but she sprouted fast. Hayley had a nephew that stood to inherit part of his fortune. So he got it in his mind that if he could get Anne with his nephew, things would be kind of good for her. Not to mention his nephew would be more inclined to spend his inheritance wisely if she made him happy.”

“He would let his nephew marry his black half-cousin?”

“You got mud in your ears, man? I said she’d be a _fancy_. A little companion on the side, sort of willed to his nephew with the rest of his inheritance. And then his nephew could breed Anne with a male slave, and she could work the house for him, and…well, everything else.”

“That’s sick,” Phillip manages. _MY Anne. He had no right to do that with my Anne._

“That news to you? Anyway, that’s how it was when Mama died of consumption. I was just nineteen, but I knew I’d rather die than see Annie treated that way. So we ran. Ended up in one of them contraband camps in ‘sixty-two, just north of the Union border in Virginia, and took some of the free schoolin’ they offered runaway slaves. First time I learned to read. Then Lincoln published his Emancipation whatchamacallit, and we weren’t just contraband anymore – we were free.”

Silence reigns for a while as they finish rinsing Flick. “So Anne’s real name is Annabelle Dunn,” Phillip says at last. “What’s yours, then?”

W.D. snorts. “Nothin’ as good as Annabelle. _My_ real name is Wilfred B.”

“Wilfred B.?”

“Yep.”

“Wilfred B. Dunn. W.D. – _Wilfred Dunn?_”

“Between you, me, and the walls, on pain of whatever the hell I feel like doing to you.”

“Easy, I won’t tell,” Phillip grins. Then, “If you hate it so much, why even keep the initials?”

“I dunno. Name fit, I guess.”

“How so?”

W.D. shrugs. “’Cause Wilfred be done,” he says.

There’s a long moment when Phillip is left grasping. Then, abruptly, they break out in snorts of laughter.

* * *

_What’s this?”_

_The soldier glances at him, and for a moment, Wilf can see contempt in his eyes. Then the man leans over. “This one?” he says, tapping the word above Wilf’s thumb._

_“Yeah.”_

_“Wheeling.” The soldier pronounces it slowly, a bit too loudly, but patiently enough. “Y’know, like the wheel of a cart, but…yeah.”_

_“Wheeling.” Wilf tastes the word. “Like the wheel of a cart.”_

_“You got it.”_

_Wilf frowns at the sentence. _The birds, wheeling overhead…_“No, I ain’t got it,” he says._

_“Why the blazes not?” the soldier sighs, scrubbing at the barrel of his gun._

_“Birds can’t wheel.” Wilf tries not to let frustration colour his tone, not with a white man, but he can’t stop it from bleeding through. “They ain’t got wheels.”_

_“’Course not, boy. You daft?”_

_“No, sir,” Wilf says stiffly._

_“Look, then.” The soldier speaks with exaggerated patience. “You don’t always have to say exactly what you mean. Like when I say I’m so hungry I could eat a horse – which I am most times in this damn war. But I could never eat a whole horse. Catch what I’m saying?”_

_Wilf nods his head slowly. He does, in a roundabout way. Now that it’s been explained something lights up in his brain like a firefly. He likes that feeling._

_“Birds wheeling is like…” The soldier makes a series of dipping, swerving motions with his hand. “Like that, in the air. Kinda like a cart being pushed around by some crazy jackass.”_

_Wilf can’t help grinning. “I seen that,” he says._

_“Sure you did.” The soldier resumes tending his gun._

_“I think it’s prettier than that, though.” The words come out of Wilf’s mouth before he can remember not to correct a white man. “I think birds wheelin’ is more like…more like the jackass fallin’ on his face and the cart catchin’ a sweet curve. Y’know, huggin’ the ruts in the road.”_

_The soldier looks up, and the surprise on his face is a pleasure to see. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he says. “Straight-up poetry. Your mama didn’t raise no fools, boy; I guess it won’t hurt to grant you that.”_

_“No, sir.” Wilf turns back to his book. “No, I guess she didn’t.”_

_Curled up next to Anne that night, Wilf thinks about birds wheeling. Dipping and swerving – free and a little crazy, catchin’ that sweet curve. He thinks about how he and Anne used to swing from that old tree near the slave quarters, swing and dip and even, sometimes, fly a little. We’re like them birds, he thinks, and for the first time since they landed in this camp, hope raises its weary head. Wheelers._

_When they leave the camp two months later, Annabelle and Wilfrid B. Dunn have disappeared. In their places stand two new people: Anne and W.D. Wheeler._

_Flying North._

* * *

Night has stolen in like a wistful pallbearer, silent and somber. Anne slips out the front door, her shawl clutched tightly to her breast. The streets have quieted, but the stars have woken; above her, they stare down judgementally.

_What’s that silly, silly girl up to now?_

She hurries through the shadows with a light step. Against a wall a man leans, bulky and doleful. At the sight of her he straightens, his glowing cigar carving an arc through the air. “Annabelle,” he says in that old familiar voice – slow and drawling, but heavy, like the air before a storm. “That really you?”

Even in the poor light he looks every year that he’s aged and more. His clothes are still good, but Anne can see a subtle difference. Times have been bad. Maybe worse than bad. “Yessir,” she says softly, stopping a few feet away. Even now, she doesn’t trust him entirely. “I came to talk – I know you been hangin’ around.”

Hayley taps the ashes from his cigar. Anne’s gaze slides down to her shoes. A weighty hand takes her chin and tilts her face up. “Let me get a good look at you, girl,” Hayley says curtly. “Let me look at what those ten years did to you.”

She stands stiffly under his scrutinising gaze. At last he drops his hand. “You grew,” he says stepping back and sucking on his cigar. “You weren’t more’n a stick on a fence last I saw you.”

“Wilf takes real good care of me.” Her Dixie-birthed accent is surging back, the way it always does when she and W.D. are alone together. But there’s a hoarseness to it today that’s reminiscent of parched throats and pained cries. “And I got a good place now.”

“Don’t you lie to me, girl. I read the papers.” A flutter of smoke escapes Hayley’s lips. “Protestors are giving you a hard time.”

Anne drops her gaze again.

Hayley looks away over the shadow-sharp roofs. “We don’t have hard times at Hayley Manor,” he reflects. “We don’t live like kings anymore, but I reckon I can find you a comfortable situation.”

“I’m Mister Barnum’s hire, sir.”

“I don’t see him here.” She can feel the burn of Hayley’s gaze. “Just that little snip of a partner.”

For a moment courage floods her, sweet and bold. “Don’t say that about him, Mister Hayley,” Anne half beseeches, half commands. “He’s a good man, and he takes care of us.”

“Got you into his bed, did he?” Anne’s courage wilts as Hayley leans in. “You better not tell me that, girl. You better not tell me you wasted yourself on a no-go.”

Anne flinches down again. “No, sir,” she murmurs. “I never did that.”

“Good.” Hayley draws on the cigar again. Somewhere a bird calls. “Then I’ll make the offer.”

“I can’t go back, sir. Please…”

“I’m not asking you to be like you were before. Slavery’s done; I know that.” Hayley sighs. “I poured all I had into that damn war, and at the end all I got were a bunch of freed slaves. No compensation for my loss. Just near bankruptcy – and it broke Missus’ health. She’s gone now, bless her soul. All I got left to my name is a worn-out old field I got to pay n - people like you to work.”

In any other situation, Anne would despise him. But Hayley is smiling a little, utterly without happiness, just sadness and bitterness and who-the-hell-cares, and for some reason it hurts her. “You came all this way to get us?” she asks timidly, peeking up at him.

“To get _you_.” Hayley looks at her then, and Lord, he looks so _tired_. “Wasn’t easy, after you changed your names. But you’re all I got left to mine.”

“You told me never to speak of that, sir,” Anne says barely above a whisper.

“So I did, but things are different now. You made my Missus mighty unhappy, but she’s gone now, and I’m a lonely man. So come back – I’ll see to it you have one of them black lawyers that’s up-and-coming for a husband. A well-to-do man to give you babies. Now wouldn’t you like that – sitting with your old man of an evening, just like proper white folk, with little ones playing around your feet?”

And despite her revulsion and terror, Anne feels a twisted relief. _Wouldn’t_ she like that? To be back in a place she knows, suffocating as it was, where she didn’t worry about where her meals came from or who might spit in her face. Hayley might be poor now but he’s still respected, and he came all this way to find her. To find his daughter, the last person he owns.

_You could have a husband and little babies, _a voice whispers. _You could have that and everyone praising you because damn, those freed slaves are a pain in the arse, but at least this one knows her place._

_And never have W.D. catch you in the air,_ another voice whispers back, _or Phillip kiss your lips and stare at you while you fly, or Barnum teach you the steps to some crazy dance he just thought up. You _know_ he’s going to come back, he just has to, and you can’t miss that anymore than you can the Second Coming._

“I’m sorry, Mister Hayley, I gotta stay here.” Anne tightens her Mama’s shawl around her shoulders. “Mister Barnum’s coming back. I can’t be away when he does.”

“The man’s long gone, Annabelle.” Hayley’s Southern drawl is rough with disgust. “Took off with a woman who’ll make him rich. You and your friends are yesterday’s news.”

“Even so, I can’t leave the circus for you, sir.” Anne backs up a step. “I’m waitin’ on another mister.”

“Annabelle…”

“Goodnight, Mister Hayley.” Anne turns away. “I’m sorry you came so far for nothin’.”

“You could call me Papa.” Hayley’s desperation freezes her in her tracks. “Would you like that, Annabelle? Would you like me to be your Papa?”

Anne looks over her shoulder, throat clenching. Hayley’s cigar is forgotten in his hand. The shadowed lines of his face droop. He could be her Papa, could he? A man who raped her mother, who whipped her brother, who turned her over to Missus’ wrath? And if not him, who? Who would walk her down the aisle into Phillip’s arms? Who would care that much or stay that long?

Who would else would be so poor in spirit that he would consider her a good investment?

“I’m waitin’ on another mister,” she repeats, a forlorn, earnest anthem. “You can talk to Mister Barnum when he gets back if you want – he holds my contract – but I know what his answer’s gonna be. You won’t listen to Phillip, you won’t listen to me, but you’ll listen to him – people do, somehow.”

“It’s a sinking ship, Annabelle,” Hayley calls out as she turns away. “What if he never gets back? What will you do then – a black circus performer with nothing but pennies? That boy Carlyle won’t hold things together. It’s all going to fall apart, and then you’ll be homeless.”

“You’re wrong about that.” Anne speaks under her breath in time to her steps. “Phillip’s waitin’ on the same mister I am. And even if we’re apart, I guess it don’t hurt to wait together.”

* * *

Three days later, Barnum finally opens the fourth letter.

It doesn’t seem right to read it with Jenny Lind in the room. Closing the door on the rest of the suite, Barnum unbuttons his waistcoat and lights a lamp. The warm glow suffuses the envelope’s girlish writing.

He sits and slits the top with his finger. Papers bulge cheerfully inside. A smile creases his face. He turns the envelope upside-down for the pleasure of watching the contents spill out. One letter, two letters, three. One from each of his girls. And two drawings and a homemade bookmark. And what looks like a Sunday School version of a greeting card.

He presses the envelope to his lips, inhaling slowly. The faint hint of Charity’s perfume tickles his nostrils. Sudden tears stand in his eyes, and quickly he sets the envelope aside, wiping his nose with his wrist. It’s no use imagining how intoxicating it would be to breathe it straight from Charity’s skin, with barely an inch between them, and a blanket of darkness wrapping them together.

When the fog has cleared from his eyes, he settles his spectacles on his nose and picks up a letter. He gets Caroline’s. It runs for a full two pages with an eloquence he never noticed prior to this tour. She’ll be eleven in the fall – an old eleven, by the sounds of it. A tide is turning, and he’s standing helplessly in its wake.

At last he sets her letter aside and picks up Helen’s. It’s filled with the usual chirpy, somewhat saucy excitement, laced now with little-girl melancholy. This daughter, at least, is still his little peanut. He folds the letter and puts it next to Caroline’s, glancing over at Charity’s.

This is the letter he’s been avoiding. He reads it at first with trepidation, but no condemnation is forthcoming. The loops of her elegant handwriting are sad. She misses him. She wonders where he is as he reads this sentence. She hopes he’ll be home soon, but that’s impossible, because every moment he’s gone feels like a year.

These things any lover might write to another. But with Charity it never sounds contrived or trite. It’s the same tone she took as a girl, writing letters to a hollow-eyed tramp who might freeze to death that very night. No artifice. No wasted sentiment. Only what is real and solid and honest.

Homesickness digs its nails into his heart. To distract himself, he studies the drawings and other smuggled treasures. They make him laugh with delight. One sketch features Phillip on a horse, doing some kind of trick with kossack loops. He’s clad in a clinging, sleeveless costume. Is it mere whimsy, or has Phillip found a new trick? If it’s the latter, he’s probably discovered a whole new way to blush.

With that thought, his eyes fall on Phillip’s letter.

It’s probably just business. On that basis alone, he should have no reservations about it. But that familiar dread has fallen over him once more. He can’t quite forget Phillip’s bruised and limping demeanour. This new dread, he’s quite sure, has a lot to do with _guilt_.

He fingers the envelope. It’s deceptively slim; he can feel more than one page tucked in its folds. Phillip is a writer and likes flourishes, but he rarely rambles. If it’s a matter of business, he’s admirably concise.

This letter is not concise.

His finger is poised under the flap when Jenny’s voice filters through the door. Eagerly, too eagerly, he rises and calls to her. The letter he slips under a stack of papers. He’ll open it tonight, tomorrow at the latest.

As always, he soon forgets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter up Monday October 7, 2019! Don't worry folks, soon Barnum will come to his senses!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! I want to apologise. I'm finding at the moment that I'm a bit overwhelmed with responsibilities at my internship, especially as I have a major weekend coming up and have been intensely preparing for it. I really value posting on time, but unfortunately I've found myself unable to complete this week's chapter as Monday turns into Tuesday. Sadly, I feel that I have not been able to give this story the attention it and its audience deserve, and that's bad timing on my part. :( Many, many apologies.  
However!  
I will be resuming this story once things quiet down in a couple of weeks - the next chapter will be posted Monday, October 21st, due to the expected return of my sanity. Again, I'm sorry that I had to bow out like this, but I hope you will be back on the 21st for the next part! Much love to you guys!

To be continued...the saga of Barnum's journey to being a better person and a happier circus-owner...

In which, on October 21st, Phillip Carlyle finds himself running into a burning building, and P.T. Barnum finds himself running in after, and then other things happen which prove just how beautiful and badass this circus family really is.


	8. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Barnum comes home to a (literally) disintegrating circus - and has to eat humble pie. But it always tastes better when you eat it with friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience as I've worked through a very busy season! You're fantastic! :D

It’s the last day of the Barnum Circus – August 21, 1872. And, ironically, it’s the day P.T. Barnum comes home.

“I’m sorry.” Phillip leans against his desk, gazing at Charity’s back. “I’m sorry it’s come to this.”

“It’s not your fault.” She stares fixedly down at the street below. “You’re doing all you can.”

“I have no control over what you choose to do. But I beg you to consider…”

“I am considering it. I’m _agreeing _to it.” Charity finally turns. “Thank you for thinking of my girls. I appreciate your honesty.”

“I wish I could do more. Everything’s out of control. The protestors…the finances…morale is the lowest I’ve ever seen it. Charity…” Phillip’s breath hitches. “I don’t know what else to do. I don’t want to make Caroline and Helen stay away, but I don’t want them around so much hate and violence – and I don’t imagine you do either.”

Charity steps forward and takes his hand. For a minute they remain like that, listening to the faint bustle of rehearsal below.

“My husband’s work couldn’t possibly be in better hands,” Charity says at last. “You’re keeping it alive – at the expense of your own finances and health, I might add.”

“Flick’s a big help,” Phillip says with a quirk of his lips. “With my health, I mean. He sucks at finances.”

“Has Phineas answered your letters?” Charity asks softly.

“No. Not one.”

“He’s avoiding you.” Her eyes glint angrily. “Not dismissing you.”

Phillip doesn’t bother arguing.

After a final squeeze, Charity releases his hand. “What about Charles?” she asks, fanning herself with a discarded hate letter. The summer has been dry and hot; Phillip’s shirt sticks to his back and armpits like wet paper. “Did he get the letter from Doctor Fulthom?”

“Yesterday.”

“And?”

“He’s not dying.” Phillip nods at Charity’s breathy _thank God and his angels_. “Knowing him, he’ll probably live to be a hundred. According to Fulthom’s friend, this kind of pain is common to many people with Charles’ ailment. They don’t know exactly what causes it, but it’s something to do with having a disproportionate spine.”

“Well.” Charity blows a limp strand of hair off her nose. “It may sound unfeeling, but if pain is all Charles has to contend with, I suppose we should be grateful.”

“Fulthom doesn’t see any point in Charles giving up his routine. In fact, he thinks it might help keep him limber. I mean, in any case, what can I do? Charles is going to do whatever he wants.”

“And he wants to continue?”

“He’d rather die than stop.”

Charity smiles at last. “I don’t know how they all do it,” she muses. “To be born with such a natural disadvantage and still have hope boggles my mind.”

“They keep me going,” Phillip says bluntly. “When I look at what they have to deal with, I realise I can’t even think about giving up. My own problems seem pretty small.”

“Don’t sell yourself short.” Charity glances at the letter, then tosses it down in disgust. “You’re the one who keeps everyone else going now that Phineas is gone. Don’t ever underestimate what you’re doing.”

Phillip looks down at his shoes. Charity’s hand alights gently on his hair. “He’ll come back,” she whispers. “And when he does, he’ll be proud of you.”

The gentle clack of her footsteps reaches the door. “I won’t bring the girls back,” she says. “I don’t think it’s wise, either. Do let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

Phillip doesn’t look up until she’s gone. Then he takes out his handkerchief and holds it to his nose until he’s back under control.

* * *

“Ma’am, a telegram for you.”

Charity looks up from her sewing. In the next room, Caroline and Helen are playing circus with their stuffed animals. After her talk with Phillip this morning, she wishes they would pick a different subject.

“Who is it from?” she asks, dreading the answer. In her experience, telegrams convey bad news; good news can wait to be sent in a letter.

“The master, ma’am.” The butler bows and holds it out.

Her sewing drops to the floor as she rises. She reads it with trembling fingers and parted lips. As she absorbs the words, a shriek begins to rise within her; as she finishes, it bursts out like the whistle of a racing train.

“He’s coming home!” She grabs Hunter’s arm, shaking it in her excitement. No more Jenny Lind, no more empty nights, no more consoling lonely little girls. “Tonight – he’s arriving by train tonight. Oh, thank you, Lord, thank you! Hunter!” She kisses his cheek in her euphoria. “He’s coming home!”

She tears out of the room, leaving him smiling satisfactorily in her wake. Once Caroline and Helen know, there’s no containing the joy; the house rings with jubilation from one end to the other.

* * *

A strange energy grips the circus that night. The animals are restive, the performers high-strung. One of the lion tamers almost loses a hand to his restless charge; Deng and Mia, usually intense and sober, are half-paralysed by a fit of nervous giggles. Phillip himself feels lit from the inside, brimful of light and heat and flame.

Later, he will think about how people laugh sometimes just before they die – fey laughter, an otherworldly hysteria in the face of something terrible.

“I’m going to have to slap you if you don’t stop.” He has never, in his entire life, said those words to another human being – he, too, teeters on a knife edge. “Mia, come on, pull yourself together!”

She sniffs twice and straightens, her eyes still shimmering with gleeful tears. “Sorry,” she gasps. “I’m sorry, Phillip, I couldn’t – I couldn’t stop.”

“That’s okay.” Phillip carefully keeps the alarm out of his voice. His muscles are jittering all over his body; strangely, this is not unpleasant. “Just wipe your eyes and get ready.”

Anne and W.D. are on point like never before. Every catch is absolutely perfect, every somersault pristine. The flamethrowers turn the arena into a flickering primeval den, incinerating every last trace of apathy in the crowd. The children are heated to fever pitch, the adults wonder-drunk; stray dogs howl with the music.

It’s too much, too loaded, too explosive.

He will later learn that this was their biggest crowd in a month. And, as he well knows, a crowd that size will have more than a few bad apples.

* * *

W.D. has his back with the protestors, just as he promised, but it’s not enough. Phillip freezes in the face of their boorish threats, and from his limp hands hell takes the reins.

The protestors who aren’t thrown out bodily leave themselves in a hurry. The scream of people and animals is a hellish cacophony. “O’Malley, get the animals away from the flames!” Phillip shouts, struggling to pick himself up. Everything hurts from the blows of the protestors, but far worse is his mind – to his alarm, it struggles to make sense of the simplest details. _Trapped, trapped, trapped. _“Everybody, grab a blanket or a bucket!”

Yes, the summer has been as hot and dry as a desert, and worse still, the building itself is desiccated. Smoke billows from the back as flames lick their way into the arena. “You okay?” W.D. demands, grabbing Phillip as he staggers.

“Forget me. Get water.” Phillip hears his own voice from miles away – this is not good, this is terrible, this is the worst thing that could happen. He strips off his red jacket and abandons it by the stands. “Get water, lots of it. We can’t lose this place!”

As soon as he feels the blast of heat from the back, he knows it’s a lost cause. He grabs an empty sack and starts beating at the nearest flames. Around him, Oddities are stamping on blankets and hauling water, all to no avail. He’s trapped, trapped, trapped with no way out.

“Get out!” His voice rises unbidden over the roaring flames. Performers stagger back as the wall of fire advances. “Everyone get out – don’t go back for your belongings.”

“But that’s all we have,” one acrobat wails, soaked with sweat and streaked with soot.

“All you have is your life,” Lettie bellows. “Do as the man says! Get out!”

He can’t see them leave – he can’t hear their footsteps. All he sees and hears is smoke and crackling. No, that’s not true – he also hears the shrieks of the horses, the trumpeting of the elephants. He keeps beating at the flames with that sack, his arms aching and his breaths strained. He can’t seem to stop, as if his only way out is through the flames.

_Trapped. Still trapped._

“Enough, man.” W.D.’s voice cuts through the fugue in his brain. “Enough! It’s over.”

“No! The circus is not going to close.” Phillip beats at the flames with an empty sack, gagging on the billowing smoke. “I won’t let it!”

“Don’t be an idiot, Carlyle!”

“The circus has to be here for him when he…when he…”

The sack rips out of his hands, leaving behind a stinging burn. “He ain’t coming back, and you ain’t putting out those flames. Now come on, we got people and animals to get outta here.”

“I can’t…”

W.D. grabs him by the scruff of the neck. Phillip finds himself hauled away from the costumes, and just as he is, a column of smoke _whooshes_ up one of the walls. “You see that? You see what’s gonna happen? If you love my sister, save yourself, you goddamned moron!”

Phillip shakes W.D. off, actually punches at him. He looks around and doesn’t know where he is. Shadowy shapes rush through the smoke and flames, staggering under the weight of belongings or other people. He turns to find W.D. and can’t; whether the man has left him or is lost in the smoke, he can’t tell.

_If I hadn’t frozen _(Or what, boy?)_ if I hadn’t frozen we wouldn’t be burning, we wouldn’t be burning, if I was anything like P.T. Barnum I wouldn’t have frozen and we wouldn’t be burning, we’re burning right now because I froze…_

* * *

He loses himself in the smoke.

He’s not Phillip anymore. He’s a nameless spirit trapped in a struggling body, fighting for air and meaning. He would have died there, lost and disoriented, if not for Flick’s panic. He hears the hoofbeats a second or two before Flick’s chest looms out of the blackness, and if not for the many weeks of strenuous trick riding, he would have been run down. But he knows every motion of Flick’s muscled body, has learned to react to it on sheer instinct. So when he sees the soot-streaked chest emerge from the smoke, he steps neatly to one side and grabs the mane.

He only gets one leg over Flick’s back. But it’s enough. And as Flick clatters down the front steps and into the open night, Phillip drops.

The landing hurts his bruised belly and ribs. He finds his feet. He turns and goes back in, still nameless but oriented, beating off the smoke before his face. He screams hoarsely. One moment he’s staggering through a burning building, the next he’s hunched in an alley. It doesn’t matter. He saw Lettie’s face in that wild tear for freedom, and he can’t leave her.

It’s hard to know who finds whom. Their hands meet and clasp in the smoke, a wordless plea for salvation. Although he’s lurching, she’s taken in more smoke, and she all but collapses on him. He strings her arm around his neck and clasps her broad waist, and together they stumble through the doors. In their wake come the last of Lettie’s chicks, gathered together under her wing, every one of them scorched and choking.

Barnum’s face in the crowd is like a figment of a child’s imagination. Phillip can’t focus, can’t feel anything but Barnum’s hand clasping his shoulder, can’t believe that the man is real. And then he’s running back in a second time like a wild horse because _Where’s Anne? Where’s Anne?_

He doesn’t know who he is, bent and fractured from the horror of being trapped, but he knows one thing: he can’t live if he doesn’t have Anne.

He makes it about ten steps in and collapses. As he stares up through streaming eyes, his father appears, tall and austere, a spectre in a burning hell. He says nothing, his face untouched by the flicker of flame, but his expression is pitiless.

Strange, that they should meet here.

“Save me, Father,” Phillip croaks, staring up at him. “Please.”

Theodore Carlyle turns his palm out. “No, Father,” Phillip cries, tears spurting from his eyes. “Please, I’m your son!”

“Burn,” his father says quietly. “In hell.”

He disappears as the roof caves in, but Phillip is not alone. Because someone else is taking his place.

* * *

* * *

It’s nearly midnight when the flames finally die.

Barnum stands in the darkness clutching his family, surrounded by eerily disembodied moans. It’s a new sensation to not want to move or look around, to not want to _do_ anything. Truth be told, he fears the expressions on the faces around him – anguish, helplessness, desperation.

_And blame._ That little voice is almost a cackle._ Don’t forget the blame._

“Daddy, I’m cold,” Caroline whispers against his chest. He presses her to himself, willing away that first declaration of his failure. “Can we go home?”

“Of course.” His reassurance is hollow, exhausted. “Charity…?”

“You’re not coming.” At one time it would have been a plaintive question. Now it’s a weary statement. “Girls, come on. Daddy has to stay.”

“But, Daddy.” Helen says this, pleadingly, never willing to resign herself the way her mother and sister do. “You just came home.”

“I know, love. But…look at this.” Barnum gestures heavily at the smoking shell of his circus, unable to find it in himself to spin some bullshit beauty out of the ugliness. That used to be his one unfailing talent. “I can’t leave this again.”

It’s paltry and pathetic and coming late, so late. “Come on,” Charity coaxes, slipping her hands into those of her daughters. “Daddy will be home soon.”

Her eyes flick to his, as if to ask whether or not she is right to promise this. It’s not the first time, he realises, that she’s spoken and then questioned – while he’s been gone for three months, spending their money and flirting with fortune, she’s been assuring her daughters of a father, wondering if she’ll be proven a liar. He wants to apologise but that will make the betrayal real, and he can’t face that with ash still hanging in the air.

He doesn’t tell her about Jenny, about what drove him home.

He lets them go with the Oddities still keening around him, their voices soft and hoarse. They have nowhere to go. And he would gladly offer his house but he’ll have to go back there at some point. It’s selfish, but he can’t face them there. So he starts moving among them, asking those with residences nearby to harbour those who are now homeless, knowing how crowded and miserable it will be. Charles has already corralled Lettie, the Wheelers, and the Albino Twins into a herd; when Barnum sees him next he’s cajoling Deng and Mia.

_There’ll be more room with Phillip not there_. Barnum thinks it without really thinking, carelessly, and suddenly finds himself sitting with his back to the circus and his head in his hands. Phillip’s not there because Phillip might be dead. And if Phillip’s dead Barnum might just lie down on this curb and not get up.

He doesn’t know how long he sits there before he feels a hand on his elbow. “Come on, Barnum,” W.D.’s voice says in his ear. “Up you get.”

Barnum lifts his face out of his hands. “Why?” he asks numbly. “Did O’Malley figure out where to put the animals?”

O’Malley, as it turns out, is far more comfortable with animals than he is people. “Never mind that. He’ll handle it.” W.D. tugs on Barnum’s arm, firmly enough to let him know that refusal is not an option. “You’re going to the hospital.”

Barnum stumbles upright. “I’m not hurt,” he says.

“Yeah, I’ve heard that before. But you’re not going for you.” W.D. grips him under the arms and steers him in the direction of a waiting carriage. “You’re going because Anne needs an escort. And you’re going because your boy is there.”

“The circus,” Barnum says, as if it’s still any of his business.

“It’ll be here when you get back – what’s left of it.” W.D. yanks open the carriage door and nods brusquely at the interior. “We’ll make sure everybody finds somewhere to sleep.”

Barnum motions with numb chivalry at Anne, who climbs in first. He folds himself in after her, and the door slams. “Are you all right?” he asks with his fists clenched on his thighs. If she hadn’t been slow in coming out, Phillip wouldn’t have run in. The bitter thought twines around his soul like a bramble, but it’s a distraction at best. He can lay that blame until he’s twisting in his grave. The real thought he’s thinking is, _If I had run in first, Phillip wouldn’t have had to_.

And, _If I hadn’t run away, I would have been here to stop this_.

“I’m fine.” Anne wraps her shawl tightly around herself, shivering. “Just cold.”

“Cold?” Barnum tastes the word as if for the first time.

“Yeah.” Anne stares out the window, her bottom lip vibrating finely like a tuning fork. “All my clothes were inside. And my costume, it’s…gone.”

It’s like the wall of ice that separates Barnum from the world shatters. He crosses over to sit next to her, and she weeps desperately against his chest until the carriage draws to a halt.

“I love him,” she cries as he wipes her sooty face with his handkerchief. “Why didn’t I let him love me?”

“It’s okay,” he murmurs. “There’s still time for that.”

“He might be gone. What will I do? I can’t go in there if he’s…I can’t see him…”

“Shh, shh.” He draws her in and kisses her forehead, willing away the tears in his own eyes. “Don’t cry. He won’t want to see you cry.”

There’s no chance of that. Phillip lies as still as a becalmed sea, his chest hardly stirring, his eyes swollen shut. He is almost unrecognisable, dusky with soot and burns. Anne turns away to get herself under control and Barnum bends, pressing his face to Phillip’s. A few tears trickle out. They’re only between himself and an unconscious man.

“Don’t you die,” he whispers against Phillip’s ashy cheek. “You selfless bastard, who told you to take my fall?”

He moves quickly away as Anne turns, hiding his distress behind a few hoarse coughs.

His actual cough peters out around somewhere around sunrise. He’s spent most of the wee hours getting the story from the Oddities and then repeating it to the police. Just as the sun crests the skyline of New York, he finds himself back at the circus, staring at the ruined, sunken hull of his dreams.

_Jenny Lind is still touring_. He reminds himself of this as his steps take him down an ashy path, cautiously weaving under and around precariously poised debris. _The profits will be good. Everything will be okay._

He finds very little that was spared by the fire. The costumes, of course, went up like dry grass, and most of the props as well, countless hours of his creativity mercilessly immolated. He stands for about half an hour in what used to be the costume area, stunned to stillness by the enormity of the loss. He can’t fathom starting over at the first stitch. It cows him – he might as well decide to swim across the ocean.

It’s when he finds a burnt and crumbling sleeve, still streaked with red, that his legs buckle under him.

* * *

“Phillip, you have a visitor.”

Anne’s soft voice is a soothing counterpoint to their grim surroundings. Phillip’s eyes flutter open. His gaze settles on Anne’s face. And ah, the contented smile that follows is something Barnum would travel a thousand miles to see.

He would trade all his dreams and accomplishments to possess it.

“How do you feel?” Anne’s fingers stroke Phillip’s marred face. “You look better.”

“I feel great.” Phillip’s voice is hoarse. “Who’s here?”

Anne shifts so he can see. “I’ll leave you to it,” she says. She gets up and touches Barnum’s shoulder as she passes. Forgiveness.

Phillip cocks his head at a peculiar angle as Barnum passes his hat brim nervously through his fingers. “You’re here,” he notes.

Barnum’s throat clenches. “I am,” he agrees, tears welling in his eyes. Two days later, after he can no longer distract himself with the endless work, he's here.

“Was it a dream?”

“What?”

“You. With me, in the fire. Was it…was it…?”

Barnum shakes his head as Phillip gazes at him. “Don’t, don’t talk about it,” he says, closing his eyes.

“But it wasn’t a dream, was it? I felt…I felt you lift me…”

“Phillip.”

“I felt the flames. I felt you lift me. I _saw_ you lift…”

With a jolt Barnum feels again the press of the smouldering beam against his shoulders, feels the muscles popping in his back and thighs as he strains up. He sees Phillip’s eyes, gazing at him through a veil of smoke, losing coherency. _Father, please_, he says, as clear as a bell, and with a growling shout Barnum heaves the beam up and off.

His back will never feel quite right again, but he will never speak about it. His days as a railway mule saved Phillip’s life. There is nothing to complain about.

“May I sit?” Barnum gestures at the bed. He feels awkward, infinitely more so than the night they met. “I mean, now that I’m here.”

“Of course.” Phillip smiles a little. “Do you need permission?”

“I don’t know. Do I?”

Phillip just pats the bed.

Barnum sits, careful not to crowd his friend. He can’t meet Phillip’s eyes, so he studies his knees. “It’s clean, anyway,” he notes gruffly. “Better than your apartment.”

“So I hear. According to Lettie, there’s upwards of ten people staying there.”

“Comes of rooming with Charles,” Barnum quips.

“Comes of saying yes to a maniac in a bar,” Phillip quips back.

They laugh – awkwardly, but it’s something.

“I got your letters.” Barnum holds them up, all three. The tops have been torn open. He clears his throat. “Would have helped if I’d read them.”

“Have you read them now?” Phillip asks quietly.

“Yes.”

Phillip looks away, embarrassed.

“You spoke the truth, and I ignored you. I’m sorry.” Barnum’s voice breaks, and he roughly shoves it back together. “I think I’ve said that to every person in New York but you. God Almighty," he groans, lowering his face, "what a fool I’ve been.”

“Don’t,” Phillip murmurs. He grips the white sheet. “I mean, it’s true, but please don’t say it.”

“Please let me. I need to eat a little humble pie.”

“When I get out of this bed, I’ll gladly cream you with it, but right now I’m just happy you’re here. I missed you, P.T.,” Phillip adds in a heartbreakingly young voice. “It wasn’t the same without you.”

And Lord, if that isn’t enough to start him bawling…“Where’s the damn whiskey when you need it?” Barnum mutters, thumbing away the treacherous tears.

“No go, P.T.; I haven’t touched alcohol in two months.” Phillip’s voice is full of pride. “Not a drop.”

“Well done, you,” Barnum says, humbled and amazed. “Not a single drop, eh?”

“Ask Charles if you doubt me. He’ll swear on a stack of Bibles – and probably be struck by lightning soon after.”

“I don’t doubt you. I knew you could do it. I’m a little sad, maybe, that I wasn’t here to see it.”

“You’re here now.” Phillip finally manages to catch his eye. Just like Charity’s letters, Phillip’s gaze holds no condemnation. “You’ll get to see it for a long time to come. Not that I think I’ll be able to go on indefinitely like this; I’m thirsty enough to drink a lake.”

“If you were twelve, I’d know a sure-fire way of curing that,” Barnum smiles. “But as it is, you’re too debauched even for me.”

They share another laugh, and this one comes easier.

“Helen drew me a picture while I was gone.” Barnum holds up the sketch of Phillip trick-riding. “Care to explain this?”

Phillip blushes about three shades of red, which is exactly the reaction Barnum is going for. “Ah, you’d have to see it to believe it,” he says, averting his eyes. “Anyway, it’s not for show.”

“That’s what you think,” Barnum says gleefully.

“Seriously, P.T., I don’t ride publicly. It’s just to help me with the anxiety – you know, when I feel trapped. It relaxes me. The doctor said…”

“You went to a doctor?”

“When I took Charles.”

“_Charles?_ What’s wrong with Charles?”

“Easy, P.T.,” Phillip says, mildly amused. “He’s okay. He’ll explain it to you if you ask. Anyway, the doctor said I should do something to relax, that it might ease the anxiety. He was right; trick riding is great.”

“It does the trick, eh?”

“_Stop,_” Phillip laughs. “Three months without a word and that’s what you give me? God, you’re such a dad.”

Barnum grins, pleased. “Well, I missed being one,” he concedes. “And a husband. And…everything else.”

“Did you seriously miss us? Or is this more humbug?”

“Honestly? I tried never to think of you, because if I did I knew I’d want to come home. That’s why I didn’t open your letters. And I didn’t want to come home until I was properly famous. Well, I got my wish.” Barnum hesitates, fidgeting with his hat. “When you get out of this hospital,” he continues in a low voice, “you’re going to hear things…things that will lower me in your eyes…Most of it isn’t true. But some of it is.”

“What part of it is true?”

Barnum sighs. “The part where Jenny Lind kissed me,” he says.

“Why did she do that?”

Phillip knows why. They both do. “Because I led her on,” Barnum says tiredly. “Not intentionally. At least, not in _that_ way. But I did make her think things that weren’t true, and I should have known better. You were right about what was happening. I deserve everything she threw at me and more.”

“You’ve paid more than you transgressed, in my opinion.” Phillip lays his hand on Barnum’s wrist. “Let it go.”

“Not that easy,” Barnum murmurs, looking at Phillip’s scorched, tired hand on his sleeve. He’s taken by a sudden impulse to kiss the darkened knuckles, but the watching nurses wouldn’t understand. People don’t understand. They don’t grasp all the different degrees of love.

“Not that easy,” he repeats. “As much as I’m usually the optimist.”

“Charity’s forgiven you, right?” Phillip crooks a smile at him. “So do I. Let it go, P.T.”

“Can’t do it, Phil my boy,” Barnum says in a falsely bright tone. “Gotta find a way back up on that white horse.”

“You never got down.” Phillip gives his wrist a squeeze. “You just rode off in the wrong direction.”

“It should’ve dumped me.” Barnum looks ruefully at his partner. “Head over heels, then a good kick in the crotch.”

“It would have been good for a laugh, at least,” Phillip concurs. “You couldn’t possibly draw me a picture of that, could you? To put up over my new desk, wherever the hell we’re going to put _that_.”

“And then have it blown up and pasted on every billboard in town, no thank you.” Barnum shrugs. “But as for your desk, I have a few ideas.”

“Am I going to see the great P.T. Barnum grovel before a banker? Because that would instantly make all this worth it.”

“You’re going to stay here and get better, you impudent pup. _I’m_ going to hit the banks. Besides, you know I never grovel if I can swindle.”

“Ah, so that’s how you got Charity to marry you,” Phillip muses. “I thought it must have been something like that.”

Barnum’s eyes crease in a familiar smile. “One of these days,” he warns fondly, though he has no idea how to finish that threat. Hasn’t he already almost killed the kid? He pats the blanket next to Phillip’s arm. “I should let you rest. You look tired.”

“I’m fine. The doctor says I should be out in the next day or so.” Phillip hesitates. “P.T., I’m sorry about the fire. I told you I haven’t been drinking and that’s the truth. I’ve been working hard, running shows almost every night. I showed up for every one of them. I’ve put in more late nights than I care to think about. But the finances were bad even before the fire, and the protestors were getting so mean I asked Charity to stop bringing the girls around. And now we’ve lost everything.” Phillip draws a breath. “So I’m sorry, too.”

Barnum runs a hand through his hair. “Kid,” he says, “you have nothing to be sorry for.”

“I disagree.”

“I’ve been talking to everyone, and by all accounts you’ve been the glue holding this shitshow together. Besides which, I almost got you killed, and you haven’t said a word of blame. So I’m not accepting apologies from you.”

“It would make me feel better if you did.”

“It would make you feel better to be forgiven for something you didn’t do? That doesn’t exactly sound healthy.”

“I don’t think you’re in a position to lecture on what’s healthy. Can you just say you forgive me and make me feel human again?”

Barnum studies him. Phillip is hopeful, doleful, suspended between fear and peace. He can’t leave him like that. “Okay,” he says. “I forgive you.” Before Phillip can speak, he adds, “I forgive you for working yourself half to death. And for not demanding a share increase. And for not letting the place burn down three months ago when I left with a strange woman.” He arches a brow. “Fair?”

Phillip’s lips quirk upwards. “Fair _enough_,” he retorts. “Still not what I really want. But I guess haggling is what we do best.”

“True.” Barnum holds out his hand. “Shake on it?”

Phillip takes the hand. Then he tugs downward. Barnum kneels, embracing him, and marvels at how freely Phillip returns it. They say nothing, and for once, Barnum doesn’t care what anyone around him thinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note on Charles' medical issue: I was doing some medical research on the side effects of dwarfism, and apparently there's this thing called "spinal stenosis" - a nonfatal condition in which the victim experiences pain in the back and legs due to the unusual condition of the spine. It can arise at any time of life. But since this is the 1870s, they wouldn't have known much about how to treat it. Anywho, just some interesting facts - because I figured a few of the circus performers must have medical complications associated with some of their "oddities." And Phillip didn't have enough to worry about. ;)
> 
> Next chapter up Monday, October 28!


	9. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the circus begins to take shape once more, and Barnum and Bennett have an illuminating conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always for the comments and support! Enjoy this next chapter! :D

_After the birth-death of the twins, they bury them side-by-side in the grave Benjamin Hallett provides, the last contact he will have with his daughter and son-in-law for many years._

_With the milk now uselessly swelling Charity’s breasts, she agrees to serve as a wet-nurse to bring in some money. For the first time, Phineas dreads coming home. He can’t stand the sight of Charity rocking someone else’s baby, cooing softly to soothe it when it fusses. But at the same time he can’t stop staring at her as she does, her beautiful, sad face gazing benignly at a child she didn’t birth._

_This is how he discovers he can draw._

_As if compelled by some outside force, he sketches her obsessively. Charity, he discovers, is beautiful. Not just by touch or through the eyes of passion (her naked loveliness under his hands, her heat pressed to his), but objectively, bathed in the serene morning sun, or flickering like a hallowed saint in candlelight._

_He commits to paper the smooth curves of her breasts, the way her fingers cradle the baby’s downy head, the little smile that shapes her lips into a sweet arc. And then, instead of the baby he didn’t father and will never love, he begins to sketch their own children: the dark little heads on her shoulders, the tiny furrowed brow of the boy, the wistful peace of the girl. As he frantically works to dispel the coldness in his heart, he begins to feel the old fire building in him, the fire that commands him to take Charity in his arms and love her._

_It’s a long time before he can safely do so. But when that time comes, they fall into each other like a torrent of water over a cliff._

* * *

The day after Barnum and Phillip shake hands on their new partnership, they buy the piece of land.

The entire circus turns out that night to the empty lot, including Charity and the girls. The goings-on attract a couple of vagrant sideshow performers, whom Barnum promptly hires. It’s not quite alcohol-free, despite Barnum’s attempt to keep it family- and Phillip-friendly, but it’s as close as it gets.

Blankets and food abound. Dozens of lanterns squat on the ground or dangle from sticks, showering the evening with light. Oddities huddle together or stretch out under the stars. Several decks of cards appear. Charity ends up dominating her “table,” which is really just an overturned crate, and makes her fortune in peanuts. The Albino Twins, Farah and Fay, do a stand-up routine that leaves Vasily unable to breathe for minutes together. Phillip and Anne sit together under a blanket, kissing to their hearts’ content, until Caroline and Helen shriek the words to “Kissing in a Tree” and end the moment.

It’s as close to perfect as anything gets.

Barnum has been sitting on the outskirts ever since the merriment began. He’s playing alone with a deck of cards, as if his entire circus and family aren’t a dozen feet away. He flips the cards between his fingers, making them snap and flutter, idly doing tricks that utterly confound Phillip’s mind.

At last, unable to contain his amazement any longer, Phillip demands, “Where did you learn _that?_”

Barnum jerks his head up. His expression says he’s been dragged sharply back from a far-off land only he can visit. “Oh, _this?_” he asks, making several cards climb nimbly between his fingers. “This is nothing. You should’ve seen the railway hand who taught me.”

“I beg to differ,” Phillip retorts as the other Oddities begin to take notice. “If that’s not actually magic, I’m not a Carlyle.”

Barnum smiles. He makes the cards climb back the other way, then file neatly into his palm. “Anyone can learn this,” he says. “Of course, you have to have the confidence of a world-famous ringmaster.”

“Or a four-balled peacock,” Charles chimes in, and several performers frantically hush him.

It’s too late. “What’s a four-balled peacock?” Helen asks, brow furrowed, as Charity rolls her eyes exasperatedly.

“Nothing Charles will attempt to explain.” Barnum shoots Charles a warning look as the cards click rapidly against his fingers. “Unless he wants to be a no-balled general.”

Anne stifles a giggle against Phillip’s shoulder as Helen wrinkles her nose in confusion. “Show me,” Phillip says suddenly, more from a desire to see Barnum back where he belongs, in centre ring, than from any belief that he can actually master this. “I’m a ringmaster too.”

Barnum hesitates for a moment. His gaze wavers from the Oddities to Phillip, seeking out his place among them. His indecision doesn’t last long; cries of _Come on, Barnum, show us what you got_ and _Don’t hold out on us_ bring the old smile back onto his face. He gets up, entering the circle, and sits down cross-legged across from Phillip. “Not a word about my bad knees,” he warns, eyes twinkling. “Give me your hands.”

Phillip obeys, placing his fire-scarred hands in Barnum’s calloused palms. The Oddities all press closer, eager to catch a glimpse. “The trick,” Barnum says, dextrously forming Phillip’s fingers around the deck, “is to not second-guess yourself.”

Phillip’s belly is warm from the few sparse sips of liquor; he’s cradled by the comforting crush of his friends. “Anything else I need to know?” he asks.

“Yes. It took me five months to master this trick.” Barnum smiles at him. “Just to keep it in perspective.”

“In other words, you second-guessed yourself a lot.”

“You master the trick of perfect confidence and this’ll be child’s play – this and everything else.” He positions Phillip’s index finger and shows him how to manipulate the cards. “Now try it.”

Phillip takes a deep breath and presses exactly where Barnum showed him. At the same time, he does his best to think swaggering, bombastic thoughts.

Instantly the cards explode in their faces. “You set me up,” Phillip says as laughter rips through the crowd. “Either that, or I’m just really bad.”

“Both lies,” Barnum counters with a grin. Together they gather up the cards. “Be patient, it hasn’t even been five minutes.”

“I think I’ll just watch you do it.”

“You’re not giving up that easily.” Barnum sets him up again, nudging his fingers into a different position. “Here, let’s try something easier.”

Phillip practices until he can perform a few simple tricks. Then someone calls for a song, and Barnum leads them in an exuberant reworking of Come Alive. It’s still a little smoke-rusty, but no one here is judging. A few flutes and a fiddle make an appearance, and for the next hour or so the docks reverberate with rowdy singing.

As yet another song kicks up, and several Oddities begin to caper around the lot, Phillip speaks. “P.T.,” he says, his gaze riveted on Anne’s whirling form, “how long did it take you to stop second-guessing yourself? Was it really just five months, or…?”

The light from the lanterns casts an ephemeral glow on Barnum’s face, illumining the pain and kindness in every line. “Ask me that in thirty years,” he says quietly, “and I still won’t know.”

Phillip nods. Barnum’s hands move subtly, and a single card stands up between two fingers. “I don’t know that you’re asking my opinion,” he says, just as quietly. “But in case you are, this is it.”

Phillip looks at the card. His throat tightens. Barnum’s fingers move again, and suddenly the ace of diamonds is caught between the king and queen of hearts. “Just an opinion,” the man smiles. “But I’ve been known to be right on occasion.”

Phillip looks down at his feet, stricken with shy gladness. Gratitude swells in his chest. “Very true,” he says softly. “I’ll take it under advisement.”

“You do that.” Barnum puts away the cards and gets up. “A word of advice, though: don’t make her wait thirteen years like I did.”

He heads to where Charity sits with the girls. He holds out his hand and Charity takes it, spinning with him into the centre of the revelry. The Oddities cheer, and Caroline and Helen link hands and twirl until their hair tears free of the ribbons.

They dance like wild children until the moon wanes in the west.

* * *

For the first time since the burial, he and Charity visit their children’s grave together.

“What is it?” Helen asks, breaking the silence. That silence is not bitter; it’s the sound of a family taking stock of where they are and where they want to go.

“It’s where your brother and sister are buried,” Charity says quietly, stroking Barnum’s arm. Nothing but birds stir around them. “They were twins. They died a long time before you were born – before they even came out of my belly.”

“Why didn’t you tell us?” Helen chirps up. She sounds more curious than mournful.

“We didn’t want you to be sad.” Charity touches her back with her free hand. “But it’s okay to feel that way.” She pauses. “Are you sad now?”

Helen cocks her head, staring at the grave marker. “I don’t think so,” she announces at last. “But it’s too bad we’ll never meet them – except in heaven, I mean. We’ll see them in heaven, right?”

“Of course. And then we’ll all be together, because in heaven there are a lot of hellos but no goodbyes.”

Caroline sits at her father’s feet, her chin in her hands. She hasn’t said a word – for good or bad. “What about you, Caroline?” Barnum asks quietly, crouching to her level. Charity’s hand slips from his arm to his hair. “Are _you_ sad?”

She looks up at him, her eyes big and thoughtful. “Yes,” she says in a clear, sober voice.

Barnum puts an arm around her shoulders, trying to find the right words. But before he can say anything, she says, “I’m sad because you look sad. Are you sad, Daddy?”

His mouth works, but no words come out. Caroline watches him with her large, too-old little girl eyes while he engages in that old, old struggle. And then, for the first time in his life, he breaks down in front of his daughters.

He sits down on the ground next to Caroline and bawls like a baby. “I’m sorry,” he sobs against his knees as three sets of arms encircle him. “I'm sorry I killed them. I'm sorry I almost killed - almost killed...”

“It’s not your fault, Daddy.” Caroline tucks her crown under his chin; her hair soaks up his tears. “It’s okay to be sad, but it’s not your fault.”

“I was poor. I couldn’t help it. I tried not to be poor.”

“It’s okay, Daddy,” Caroline repeats as his body rocks and spasms with almost twenty years of grief. “You didn’t want to be poor; it’s just nobody wanted you to be rich.”

He cries until there’s nothing left. Nothing but the arms of his family, and the first cool breeze announcing autumn, and Phillip and the circus waiting for him on the other side.

* * *

“Thank you for putting us up.” Charity hugs her mother by the grand staircase; Hannah clutches her in return. “It’s helped us so much.”

Benjamin Hallett stands awkwardly by; he’s already kissed his daughter and granddaughters goodbye. “Yes, thank you,” Barnum forces out as Hannah Hallett turns to him. He really is grateful – where else they would have stayed the past two weeks, he has no idea – but he’s all too aware of Benjamin’s eyes on him. He presses Hannah’s extended hand fervently. “Thank you for welcoming us.”

_For welcoming _me,_ when I didn’t by any measure deserve it._

“Well.” Benjamin coughs as Charity joins her husband at the door. After a moment, he repeats, “Well.”

“We’d better be going.” In a rare moment of commiseration, Barnum spares his father-in-law further agony. “We don’t want to miss the train.”

Their new house is modest, close to the circus lot, and just big enough for the four of them. Phillip was the one who found it. It’s not much but it’s good, a good place to land, and Barnum is grateful.

“Yes, you’d better go,” Benjamin agrees, visibly relieved. He watches as Charity ushers the girls out, all of them laden with the Halletts’ parting gifts. In the past, Barnum would have resented the flamboyant generosity. Now, he simply accepts it. “Barnum,” Benjamin adds unexpectedly as Barnum turns away, “I do hope that new house of yours is well-insulated. Winter is coming, you know – and pneumonia…”

Barnum thrusts away a surge of the old animosity. “We’ll do fine,” he says with a painful smile, his hand on the door latch. “I’ll take care of them.”

“Hm.” Benjamin rocks a little on his heels. He’s clearly gathering himself for something. “I suppose you’ll be back soon for a visit.”

The invitation comes before they’ve even left the house; Caroline and Helen have made off with Benjamin Hallett’s heart like bandits. “Of course,” Barnum says, his knuckles turning white on the door latch. This is good; this is what they want, he and Charity: to heal these blood-bonds, to give their girls the grandparents they never had. “Anytime you like.”

“Yes.” Benjamin sniffs, looking off to one side. The voices of Hannah and Charity talking to the girls float in from the porch. “And I suppose, when you want – that is, when you feel the need – to visit the grave, you needn’t sneak in through the hedges. I daresay you haven’t money to spend on ripped knees – I suppose I’m right about that.”

Barnum’s blood runs cold. “I’m sorry?” he manages to ask, suddenly dizzy. “I’m afraid I don’t…”

Benjamin looks at him. “We’re fathers,” he says curtly. “Spare your trousers and my hedges, and take the lighted path by the house, for God’s sake.” He nods at the door. “And now go be with your family.”

So Barnum goes. And as he settles into the carriage, stunned and disoriented, he wonders: is there any limit to the things one can be wrong about, or is life just one corrected misassumption after another?

* * *

“All we need is a tent!”

All we need.

Famous last words.

“The animals are being stabled at Garrison’s.” Phillip trails Barnum around the dock lot as the man marks off the dimensions with his long strides. Since moving into his new house, Barnum is noticeably more at peace – not quite his old self, but getting closer every day. “That’s costing us an arm and a leg. We need to get them moved as soon as possible.”

“The man’s a charlatan. He always charges at least double what his services are worth.”

“I don’t think he could possibly charge too much to stable four elephants. But I take your point.” Phillip consults his notebook as Barnum takes a sharp turn to the right. “We have now recovered all of our missing animals. Helen of Troy was returned early this morning by a boy from the east side.”

Finally Barnum stops, his head coming up. “Yeah?” he says, his eyes shining. “She’s been missing since the night of the fire.”

“She’s not in good condition. Apparently some cabbie press-ganged her into service and sold her circus gear. She’s filthy and underfed. If not for that boy…”

“Big fan, is he?”

“He sits in the same spot every time, middle tier, near the exit. Remember he carved himself a stick like your cane? He wouldn’t say how he got her back, but her traces were cut and he’s a little on the hungry side to pay a ransom.”

“Someone’s getting free admission for a year.” Barnum resumes his stride. “What else?”

“We need to figure out where the performers are going to stay. Living conditions are getting a bit ridiculous.”

“I take it you’re tired of waking up to W.D.’s feet in your face.”

“We’re making it work, but when I envisioned going to bed with a Wheeler…”

“You were thinking the sister.”

“Don’t get me wrong, W.D. is an attractive man. But I’m batting straight on this one.”

Barnum laughs and takes another turn. “I have some ideas about housing, don’t worry,” he says. “You’ve heard of caravans.”

“You’re not thinking what I think you’re thinking.”

“Well, we can’t ask them to live in tents next to the big top.”

“We certainly can’t. Winter’s coming. And I fail to see how a caravan would address that issue.”

“They’re just like little mobile houses. As weatherproofed as money can buy, and with a stove inside they’ll heat up before you can blink. You won’t believe what they make these days…just adorable…”

Phillip laughs, because this is the sheer fun of doing business with P.T. Barnum. “I see you’re serious, despite the countless ways this could go wrong,” he says. “Okay, show me some specs and we’ll talk.”

“Whatever happened to _jump_ and _how high?_”

“Name one day we had that conversation.”

“Come to think of it, you’ve been a very intractable apprentice.”

“And that’s why we’re still in business.” Phillip flips the page. “I’m also not sure why you want the houses to be _mobile_. Is that something I want to know?”

“Phil, you won’t believe what I’ve been thinking.”

“After your idea for flying elephants, I think I will.”

“Tour.”

“And here we go.”

“I know it’s not your favourite word, but listen: I’m going to redefine it for you.”

“P.T.”

“Just picture this…”

“P.T.”

“Pack everything up…”

“P.T.”

“Put it in bags, in carriages, in trains, whatever we need to do to get it out of here…”

“_P.T._” Phillip raises his voice and steps in front of his partner. Barnum is forced to stop, his eyes wide. After a pause, Phillip says, “Do you see where we’re standing at this moment?”

Barnum looks around. “The piece of land we purchased for the circus,” he says.

“Yes. The piece of land we purchased that is _still_ just a piece of land. As in, no sign of a circus.” Phillip crosses his arms. “The tent is still being tailored. The Oddities are still crammed ten to an apartment. You’re working through the night sewing costumes so we’re not performing in our garters. Barnum. _Slow down_.”

Barnum gives him a guilty grin. “Sorry,” he says. Then, before Phillip can pardon him, he adds, “But just think how _amazing _it would be!”

* * *

The tent has barely been up a day, and Barnum is inside, marvelling at the soaring striped canvas for the millionth time, when a familiar voice speaks from the entrance.

“Good morning, Mister Barnum,” it says. “I hope you don’t mind entertaining an uninvited guest.”

Barnum’s mouth twists in a wry smile. “I don’t suppose I have a choice,” he says, turning. Sure enough, James Gordon Bennett stands in the entrance, hands clasped over his notebook. “I wondered when you would turn up.”

“Sooner than later is the best time, I find.” Bennett steps inside, his small eyes taking in the massive stretch of canvas. Even his dispassionate face registers a twitch of admiration. “I have to admit, when I said I hoped you would rebuild, I didn’t think it would actually happen.”

“Such confidence inspires me.” Barnum rests his hands on his hips. “Are you here to give me some free publicity or a kick in the ass?”

“It depends.” Bennett’s eyes return to Barnum. “I can hardly pass up such an enticing target if it presents itself. On the other hand, you could be civil, and we could have quite a pleasant conversation.”

Realistically, it shouldn’t hurt to offer Bennett a drink…after all, bad or good, the publicity would be welcome right about now. “Step into my office,” he says, jerking his head at a row of crates. “Have a seat; best ones in the house. I think I might even have something to drink in one of those.”

It’s not the best stock of bourbon he’s ever tasted, but it’s better than nothing, and they nip lightly at it while the morning sun slants through the tent opening. “Quite the enterprise,” Bennett sighs at last. “I can honestly say I’ve never seen a tent this size before.”

“Remarkable, ain’t it?”

“Quite.” Bennett glances at him slyly. “Almost as remarkable as the staying time of your first circus.”

Barnum winces. “That was all my apprentice’s doing,” he says, lifting the bottle to his lips. “My _partner_, I should say. We’re fifty-fifty now – and feel free to print that.”

Bennett scribbles it down. “Fascinating,” he muses. “I had heard rumours that his money was heavily involved – a blessing, is it not, to have a partner with a good head on his shoulders?”

“I realise you’re insulting me, but I can’t help agreeing in this case. If not for Phil, this tent wouldn’t be here.” Barnum taps the bottle lightly against his knee instead of taking another sip; he has no intention of getting drunk when there’s so much work to do. “Of course, it’s going to be much more than a tent by the time we’re done with it.”

“Do tell.”

“Not so fast, Bennett. I hold my cards a little closer to my chest than that.” Barnum grins cryptically. “However, I can divulge that the new living quarters for the performers are going to be even more remarkable than the tent – I might drop the word _caravan _into your lap, if I was so inclined to do you a favour. Is that satisfying?”

“You seem to be confusing _satisfying _with _tantalising. _You cannot feed a dolphin a single fish out of a bucket and expect it to be happy.” Bennett jots down another note. “But I’ll certainly take it. So, fifty-fifty – what does that mean, exactly?”

“It means Phillip’s finally getting the credit he deserves.” Barnum offers the bottle and Bennett takes it. “And it might mean more than that…”

He trails off as Bennett looks at him keenly. He doesn’t say that he’s thinking about stepping back from the circus, about giving the performances over to Phillip entirely. He doesn’t say it because it would burn like acid in his throat – he can’t picture a world in which he never dons the red coat or sings to a cheering crowd. He can’t picture a world without his Oddities.

And yet, he owes his family.

“Interesting.” Bennett eyes him, as if he’s heard every word. “If I may digress for a moment, I would like to note that Carlyle did a good job standing in while you were gone.”

“He’s not a stand-in,” Barnum says evenly. “He’s the real deal.”

“I don’t mean to degrade the quality, or should I say the exuberance, of his work. There’s something not quite normal in his enjoyment of the role, surely a prerequisite for a man filling your shoes.”

“By that I take it you approve of him.”

“Certainly. There’s nothing wrong with your protégé that can be seen with the naked eye. Much like his mentor.”

“And yet,” Barnum says, amused, “I sense a new tendril of displeasure taking root.”

“The show missed you, Mister Barnum. You are a purveyor of human oddities, but what you may have failed to realise is that you yourself are one.”

“Do elaborate,” Barnum says, intrigued.

“What else would you call a man who appears to relish the company of the shunned, who willingly shares a spotlight with them? I’ve seen you covered in rotten fruit beset by angry shouts, yet smiling from ear to ear as if entreated for an encore. I can honestly say I’ve never before seen _that_ in my considerable experience.”

“You would argue, then, that I purvey myself as well as my friends.”

“And you are very, very good at it.”

“The accolade, particularly from yourself, is appreciated. But since you seem to guess my intentions – I’m compelled to stop for personal reasons.”

“Personal?”

“Yes. I have to make sure I don’t miss the delight of my family.”

“Oh, really.” Bennett considers him with penetrating eyes. “I always thought the circus _was_ your family.”

Barnum doesn’t know quite what to say. “The bottom line is, you shouldn’t abandon your brainchild so soon,” Bennett pursues when he offers nothing. “It’s not good business, Mister Barnum. Or good showbusiness, for that matter.”

“What’s not good about a new act?”

“You _have_ a new act if you want it. Barnum and Carlyle.” Bennett gives him a look. “Neither you nor your partner are at your peaks working alone. The greatest magic happened when you operated together. Review the sales records, they don’t lie.”

“And how exactly do you propose I continue at the circus?”

“Simple. You need not go on every night. Surrender some nights to Mister Carlyle and take the other ones yourself. Share shows once in a while. I speak for the masses, as I flatter myself that I usually do – having the two of you in the ring at once would be a heretofore unknown delight.”

“Barnum and Carlyle.” Barnum makes a show of mulling it over, despite the sudden leap of his heart. It would certainly be an excellent solution to their current problem: that is, how to make sense of their new partnership. “I don’t know. It lacks something. Something…What’s that phrase the poets are so fond of?”

_“Je ne sais quoi?”_

“No, alliteration.” Barnum flashes a grin. “For the greatest impact, our names should begin with the same letter.”

“But they don’t,” Bennett deadpans.

“Please, Mister Bennett, indulge me.” Barnum lives to put that hint of desperation on the faces of people like Bennett. “How about…oh, say, Barnum and Brewer? Barnum and Banks? Barnum and Burns? No,” he dismisses with a quick flick of the bottle, “those are too obviously biographical.”

Bennett has the look of a man wishing for a noose. “How about,” he says dryly, “simply working with what you have?”

“I never work, only rework.”

“All right, then. By all accounts, your partner bailed you out when you had nothing left to your name. What about Barnum and Bailey?”

Barnum pauses with a smart remark on his lips. Barnum and Bailey. It actually has a nice ring to it, now that he hears it out loud. “Not bad,” he concedes. “You make me wish I had thought of it myself.” He schools his face into his best impression of sincerity. “You’re sharper than I gave you credit for. Have you ever considered Barnum and Bennett?”

“And that marks the end of this conversation.” Bennett puts on his hat and tips it. “So long, Mister Barnum, and thank you for all the quotes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should probably be sorry for inflicting that final conversation on you, but I can't bring myself to the point of real remorse. ;)
> 
> Next chapter up Monday November 4th! And Happy Hallowe'en!


	10. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the name Bailey doesn't go away and Anne gets a couple of surprises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, another chapter posted at the 11th hour. ;) Enjoy guys!

They’ve just started to make the big top look like a circus when the letter arrives.

Phillip’s sleeves are unbuttoned and rolled to the elbow, his spectacles dangling from one hand. Phillip rarely bares his arms, even when mucking stalls. Barnum quietly draws the office curtain and hops up to sit on his desk. He says nothing.

Finally, Phillip stirs. “It’s official,” he says.

“What is, Phil?”

“I’m disowned.”

Barnum exhales slowly. Phillip just sits there, staring at the letter in his hand. “I take it this wasn’t a personal correspondence,” Barnum says after a minute.

“Not quite.”

“Was there _anything_ from him in there – anything from him as a father?”

“Why would there be? I’m no longer his son.”

“Phillip,” Barnum says quietly, selfishly wishing it wasn’t true, “you will _always_ be his son.”

Phillip turns his face away, the letter trembling in his hand.

Sighing, Barnum scrubs at his eyes. “Kid, I’d love to say something that would make this less stupid and horrible,” he says. “But the English language doesn’t have words for that.”

“I just didn’t think it would hurt like this. I thought I’d be relieved. I wasn’t prepared…” Phillip takes a shuddering breath and stops.

Ah, damn. Barnum gets down from the desk as Phillip grips the bridge of his nose. His hand finds the base of Phillip’s neck where the dark hair makes a neat fringe. “You’re not alone,” he says as tiny shudders move Phillip’s shoulders. “If he’d done this a year ago, you’d have been all by yourself.”

“I know. God, what would I have done?”

“Let’s not think about that.” Barnum pushes his fingers gently through the hair at Phillip’s nape. “Is there any action you’re required to take?”

“Yes.” Phillip sniffs, raises his head, dons his spectacles. Barnum’s hand drops to his shoulder. “He’s demanding that I change my last name,” Phillip says, rereading the lines. “Legally.”

“You’re kidding.”

“He suspects I want to marry Anne one day. I don’t think I need to explain his reasoning.”

“Can he make you do that?”

“I don’t know. I don’t want to find out. I’m tired of fighting, P.T. He doesn’t want Anne to have the name of Carlyle – fine. Maybe I don’t want her to either.”

Phillip plucks off his glasses again. “You’ve made up your mind, then,” Barnum murmurs, keeping a steady pressure on his friend’s shoulder. “Good man. But it leaves you in a rather unique position.”

“Nameless.”

“It could be a barrier to getting married at some point. Any ideas?”

“I honestly don’t know.” Phillip fiddles with his spectacles. “When Michael and I were still teenagers, Michael decided he wanted to study law. Well and good, as far as my parents were concerned. But my father always dreamed of having at least one of his sons share the title of his business. I was thrilled when he sat me down and explained I would be the one to do that. Now he doesn’t want my name anywhere near his.”

“Well, that’s too bad.” Barnum speaks with slow excitement building in him, like the momentum of a freight train. “One man’s trash is another man’s treasure.” He snatches up a piece of paper and writes something down. “Beware of throwing things out around P.T. Barnum.”

He drops the paper in front of Phillip. “Bailey?” Phillip says, staring at it. “Why Bailey?”

“Something wrong with it?”

“No, just…Was it the name of your childhood dog or something? Because I’m not sure…”

“That cuts me. Do you actually think I’d name you after my dog?”

“Your cat, then?”

“Come to think of it, you do look a little like a basset hound that lived next door. But his name was Harvey. Phillip Harvey…I don’t know. It doesn’t have the same ring.”

Phillip stares at the paper a while longer. “You really want me to take this name?” he asks.

“I really do.”

“Any particular reason? I mean, one that would make sense to anyone who’s not you?”

“I don’t know. I just think it would look good next to mine.” Barnum poises his hand in the air, dramatically punctuating his words. “_The Barnum and Bailey Circus_. Sounds nice, doesn’t it?”

Damn, if they don’t start throwing back some shots there are going to be some very unmanly emotions in this office. “You’re serious?” Phillip manages to say. “You’d do that?”

“We’re fifty-fifty partners.” Barnum tries to speak lightly and fails. “And the commitment you’ve shown to this circus…well, it’s outdone mine over the past few months.”

“The Barnum and Bailey.”

“It’s not the billboard of Carlyle Enterprises, but it’s not a bad place to land.”

“My God, P.T.” Phillip is laughing and crying a little, and Barnum laughs and cries a little with him. “You don’t have to do this.”

“You didn’t have to bail me out.”

“Bail…is that…Barnum, you’re horrible.”

“In the best possible way, I think you would agree.”

“I don’t need to be repaid. It made me happy to do it.”

“You’re right. And I’m not trying to make myself feel better. You’ve earned it. I want you to have a name you can be proud of. Might be hard with it next to mine, but…”

“I can’t think of a better place to put it.” Phillip looks at the name again, laughs, shakes his head. “Phillip Bailey,” he says. “Anne Bailey. Little toddler Baileys.” He looks up at Barnum, smiling. “I like it.”

Hearing it that way, Barnum does too.

* * *

That night, long after everyone else has left the grounds, Phillip leads Flick out into the big top. Even before he enters, he can hear the creak of rope, the thump of counterweights. He cranes his neck as he and Flick pass beyond the new stands. Sure enough, Anne is there, swinging through thirty feet of free air, heedless of the ground-dwelling creatures below. “Mind if I join you?” he calls, tugging Flick forward.

She lands with precise grace on one of the platforms. “No other reason I’m here,” she smiles, looking down.

Phillip mounts Flick, his thighs easily gripping the oiled saddle. “Can you come down here for a minute?” he asks. His voice is unsteady. “I have something I need to ask you.”

Anne finds a rope and slithers down. She alights gently on Flick’s withers, barefoot and slender, and bends over. The kiss they share is sweet, a secret between themselves and yet no secret at all. “Ask me,” she murmurs, smiling against his lips. “Anything.”

He tugs her down. “Ride with me,” he urges, and she leans back into him, propping her lithe feet on his. They make slow, lazy circles around the tent, rocking gently to Flick’s fluid motions, easing slowly into a canter.

Then Phillip takes them outside, and the sharp fall air nips them to full wakefulness. The lot is large, and Flick eagerly stretches his legs, taking them at a steady lope around the perimeter. From the edge of the property they can see the moon glinting off the harbour water, glowing against the crisp black of an October sky.

“This is home.” Anne’s voice is a sigh. “Do y’feel it, Phillip?”

He does. He tightens his arms around her waist as Flick’s legs plunge and gather, plunge and gather. “I have to tell you something,” he whispers in her ear as the wind shushes past. “It’s not good, but you need to know.”

“Tell me.”

Phillip rests his nose against the smooth curve of her jaw. “I’m not a Carlyle anymore,” he says, his words rising and falling with that serene, blissful canter. “My father disowned me today.”

Flick takes a turn, and Anne’s fingers link with Phillip’s. “I wondered when he would,” is all she says.

Then, “Are you okay?”

“I think so. He wants me to change my name, Anne. I won’t be a Carlyle anymore.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll be a Bailey.”

She turns her head a little, just enough so he can see her expression. “And whose idea was that?” she asks slyly.

“Do I need to say it?”

She giggles a little. “God, I do love him,” she murmurs as Flick snorts expansively.

He smiles against her hair.

“And?”

“And what?”

“You said you needed to ask me something.”

“Well…” Phillip tugs on the reins, and Flick reluctantly slows his pace to a walk. Anne relaxes against him, bringing a heady thrill to his loins. “I guess I need to know if you’re okay with my new name.”

“What wouldn’t I be okay with?”

“Well…” Phillip says again. He tugs again and Flick stops, stamping once in protest. When the Arabian has finally stilled, Phillip slides to the ground, leaving Anne perched in the saddle. His heart is a drumbeat in his throat. “I guess I feel that you have a stake in what I call myself. At least, I hope you consider yourself to have a stake in it.”

Anne’s lips curve up. “I like the sound of that,” she muses. “But…you still haven’t asked me a question.”

Phillip holds the reins in a shaking hand, the other resting just below the curve of the saddle. He breathes determinedly through a constricted throat. “I’m not sure a man should be asking this question on the very night he loses his sonship,” he hedges. “It doesn’t seem proper.”

“You’re not as fatherless as people might think.” Anne’s smile is brilliant. “Ask away.”

“I’m poor,” Phillip blurts, wondering at the strange words on his tongue.

“That you are,” Anne agrees.

“And I don’t know how long I’ll be that way.”

“Same here. Still no question.”

“I’m poor, but I’d rather be that way with you than by myself.” Phillip’s hand shakes as it leaves Flick’s sweaty side. He delves into his pocket, sweaty fingers slipping on the object there. “I don’t even have the proper token to offer you. I just have this – for you to keep against the day when I have enough money to make the offer properly.” He takes out the ace of diamonds and holds it up, kneeling on the cold grass. “Will you marry me?” he asks, and those must be the sweetest words to ever leave his mouth.

Anne throws her head back in a cry of laughter. Rather than sink, his heart leaps – there is no rejection in that sound, only joy. “Of _course_,” she cries, swinging her left leg over to join the right. She slides off Flick as he rises, and their bodies align, pressing urgently together in the night chill. “If you’ll promise to be married in your red coat, that is.”

“Okay,” he says, giddy, disbelieving, willing to say anything or promise anything as long as Anne’s eyes keep shining at him like stars. The card crumples between them as he claims a kiss, aware of Flick snorting impatiently in the background. “I like red better than black, anyway,” he whispers when they nudge apart.

“That’s the Barnum in you,” she whispers back, and they laugh together, unbreakably linked as the ships rock restlessly in the dim harbour.

* * *

The next morning, like a somber funeral bell the day after a wedding, Barnum calls Anne into his office.

To be summoned by name is highly unusual. Normally if Barnum has something to say, he tracks his performers down. Anne finds her way there with one hand pressing the ace of diamonds she keeps close to her heart. Can something be so wrong just hours after she’s come into such happiness?

As soon she steps into the office, her heart plummets to her toes. Barnum sits at his desk, hands clasped in front of him, his mouth small and tight; all trace of the jokester is gone. Phillip stands next to him, face white, hands clenched stiffly by his sides; his eyes are too wide and bright, flared like the nostrils of a horse. W.D. turns to her as she enters; he’s furious, terrified, and she realises he’s only just gotten here himself.

In front of Barnum’s desk, his hat in his hands, stands Thomas Hayley.

“Anne.” Barnum nods to her, and her heart makes another terrifying descent, this time straight through the packed floor. “I guess you can see why I called you.”

“Mister Hayley.” The words clog in her throat; she has to choke her way past them. “You came back.”

Hayley looks her over, much as he did that night, and instantly her blood freezes. She is a rope in a tug-o-war, one woman suspended between four warring men, and there’s no use pretending otherwise. “I heard about the fire; I was called away briefly on business at the time, or I would have come to see you.”

It could be the truth or it could be a lie – with Hayley, there’s no way of telling. “I wasn’t hurt.” Anne feels the comforting bite of W.D.’s hand on her shoulder. “Everyone’s fine.”

She doesn’t comment on Phillip’s close call. “Mister Hayley is here to discuss your contract,” Barnum says, his eyes locked on Anne. It should make her uncomfortable, perhaps, but she draws strength from it, from that keen, earnest concern. “I wasn’t aware before today that there was any question about it.”

That would sting if not for the hurt and self-recrimination that accompany it. “I’m sorry, Mister Barnum,” Anne says evenly. “You were away, and with everything else, I suppose I thought it didn’t matter. There’s no question about my contract – I’m very happy with it.”

“I’m not angry,” Barnum says in that serious way as Phillip’s fists relax a fraction. “I just want to understand what’s been going on – in your words.”

“Anne and I have had a discussion already,” Hayley intervenes in his thick Southern drawl. “I can assure you…”

“I asked Anne,” Barnum interrupts, cutting him off with the sharpness of a steel knife, “and it’s Anne I expect to hear from.”

Silence falls.

“We did have a discussion.” Anne forces herself to speak up, to speak to those eyes that never leave her. “While you were on tour. I met with Mister Hayley one night – that was after Phillip turned him away.” She turns to her new fiancé, pleading with her eyes for him to understand. “I had to talk to him. By myself…” _Without the buffer of too many men choosing my words for me._ “Please, Phillip, try to understand.”

“I think I do.” Phillip’s voice is thick. “But it was foolish. Meeting him, at night, all alone…”

“And what do you think I would do to her, young man?” Hayley looks down on Phillip in contempt – literally, with his several inches of extra height. “Kidnap her? I’m not a barbarian, and I don’t resort to such methods.”

“Bullshit,” W.D. snaps before anyone else can get a word in. “I’ve seen you do things that would make a barbarian ashamed.”

“Okay, okay let’s take it down a notch,” Barnum interrupts as Hayley opens his mouth. His face is almost unbearably stern. “Anne, what was the gist of your discussion with Hayley?”

“He wants me to go back to Georgia.” Anne keeps her chin lifted, but with that diamond pressing against her heart, the words are almost unbearable. The idea that she might have actually gone with him is horrifying. “He wants me to live down there. I told him I couldn’t, because…”

She stops. “Because of what, Anne?” Barnum’s voice carries a hint of gentleness. No, he’s not angry at _her_. “Your contract?”

_Not because of my contract – because of you. _“I had no right to light out,” is what she says aloud, clasping her mama’s shawl to her breasts. “You were coming home, and I couldn’t leave. I had no right.”

“And now that I’m home, what do you say? Do you want to go with him to Georgia? Or do you want to stay here with the circus?”

Phillip stirs, and Barnum puts a retraining hand on his arm. W.D.’s hand tightens on her shoulder – she’ll have bruises there later, for all his usual care. Hayley watches her like a hawk, and what’s left of her courage wilts under his forbidding eyes. “I don’t think I can say,” she says, casting her gaze to the ground. Her body begins to curve inward in that familiar reflex of obeisance – the weight of free speech, of free will, is too much in the presence of a man like Hayley.

“I need to have your word, Anne.” Barnum is kind but relentless. “You’re the one who has to decide – not Phillip, not Hayley, not W.D., and certainly not me. It’s for you to say. Do you want him gone?”

_Too many men. Too many _white_ men. What can one black girl say in front of all these faces?_ “I don’t think I can,” she manages, and then has to bite her lip to keep it steady. _Somebody make the call, please. Somebody say what I want._

The desk chair creaks, and Barnum comes around, looking gravely down at her. In Charity’s own words, he hasn’t slept five hours together since the fire. The skin around his eyes is bruised and puffy; his fingers are rough and needle-pricked from constant sewing. He never seems to be without a pile of bills or a half-finished costume in his hand. He looks like the Barnum she remembers from the very beginning, the one who lived and worked off nothing but raw enthusiasm, except that this Barnum is a year and a half older, a year and a half humbler, a year and a half more human.

“What do _you_ want, Anne?” he asks quietly. “Say it, and it’ll be yours.”

She meets his gaze, and without having to think about it she says, “I want you to walk me down the aisle, because someday soon I’m marrying Phillip and I need someone to give me away.”

For a moment, Barnum stares down at her, amazed. Then, his face creases in that familiar smile, and her courage returns.

She turns to her brother. “W.D., I want you to stand up with Phillip on our wedding day, because without you standing up for _me_ I would be no better than a slave,” she says quietly, touching his cheek. Then she turns and goes to Phillip, taking his pale face in her brown hands. “I want you to marry me,” she says, “and I want us to have children and work at the circus until the day we die.”

He smiles and kisses her palm. “Me, too,” he says.

She turns to Hayley, and although her clasped hands tremble, they are well-anchored in her mama’s shawl. “Mister Hayley,” she says softly, “I want you to go back to Georgia without me. I’ve got all I need here, and there’s nothing left for me down there.”

“Annabelle…” he tries one more time.

“My name is Anne Wheeler,” she interrupts, “and soon it’ll be Anne Bailey. And I guess I don’t have to go anywhere I don’t want to go.”

There’s a long stretch of silence.

Then, at last, Barnum stirs, a little smile on his lips. “Well, damn,” he says. “I think that just about says it all.”

* * *

She doesn’t know what Barnum says, or what he does, or how Hayley finally takes his leave. All she knows is that she never hears from him again – and that’s more than enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter up Monday November 11th!


	11. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which P.T. Barnum and Phillip Bailey come to a new agreement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second-to-last chapter, folks! Sorry this one's up a little late and is kind of short; I had a computer breakdown on Sunday and had to start completely from scratch. *sigh* Well, they say there's no good writing, only good rewriting, right?

You can’t make demands on creativity. It’s there, or it isn’t; it can hardly be found sometimes, much less forced. But creativity can make demands on you, and does: it takes more than it gives, for the most part, but what it does give is addictive, a high that you cling to until you are ripped off by your fingernails and sent spiralling back to earth.

P.T. Barnum thinks these things as he sits on one of the new stands, watching the preparations for their first show. It’s November, and the first flakes of snow are swirling in the air. Phillip is in his work shirt directing the action, boots scuffed and face aglow; he’s coming alive in a way Barnum hasn’t seen in a long time, or maybe ever. The kid adamantly refuses to ride Flick in the show, but there are ways of breaking down Phillip’s resistance, and Barnum flatters himself he will have many chances to do so.

He may not be here in the same way he once was, but he will not leave again. That much he knows.

As he observes the preparations, Charles comes over and sits next to him. Barnum doesn’t miss the wince of pain but says nothing, not just now. “How’s it going?” he asks instead.

“Could be worse.” Charles’ boots bump against the tier as his legs swing. “You?”

“The same.”

Bump, bump, bump. “Looks good, don’t it?” Charles says as Lettie’s genial bellow rouses a wave of laughter. “I mean, considering we were sittin’ on a pile of cinders not three months ago.”

“It looks _amazing_.” Barnum speaks with conviction. “It’s going to be better than ever, you watch.”

“Yeah, yeah, humbug, humbug. You ready to start tonight?”

Barnum smiles, but his heartbeat is slightly too fast and has been all day. “You watch,” he repeats, which is nothing like a real answer. To change the subject, he asks, “How’s the pain? Does it ever get any better?”

“Nope,” Charles says matter-of-factly. “And it’s not going to.”

“I wish there was something I could do.”

“Like make me not a dwarf? Where’d I be then? Probably working some shitty factory job. No thanks.”

“I know, but performing with that…”

“And you gotta go out there with the Lind scandal all over your face. So what? We do what we gotta do. Maybe it even makes us better people if we do it right.”

“I hope so,” Barnum says, looking down at his companion. Charles is looking back up at him, and they share a smile that goes further back than with anyone else here. On impulse, Barnum says, “I showed up to your house back then like I knew everything, and I didn’t know one damned thing. Does that make me ignorant or just an asshole?”

“A bit of both, but that’s okay. No one asked you to know everything. We just wanted to find a good place to be.” Charles shrugs. “So relax. Enjoy the show. We saved it for you, you big lout.”

“I hate taking opening night away from Phillip,” Barnum says quietly. Phillip is laughing with W.D., although his eyes keep going to Anne in the rafters. It won’t be long before those two are married. They can barely keep their hands off each other as it is. “He’s earned it, and I think he thinks he’s going to be sidelined again now that I’m back.”

“He won’t think that for long.” Charles squints up at him. “You told him yet?”

“No, it’s a surprise.”

“Great.” Charles grins. “Too bad you’ll miss seeing him perform, but I guess you got other places to be, huh?”

Barnum’s lips crook up. “I do,” he agrees, watching as Lettie catches his eye and tips him a slightly delirious wave. He tips one back. The lump in his throat is real but it’s only partly sorrow, and he’s decided you learn to live with that feeling, like Charles performing in spite of the pain in his legs and back. “I’ll be back, though. After all, he’ll have a family soon, too, if I’m not wrong. Can’t let him make the same mistakes I did.”

“Yeah, the apple don’t fall far from the tree, Jack.”

Barnum laughs from deep in his belly, watching Phillip work, skilled and boyishly earnest, the high flush of purpose animating his face. “Apples and oranges,” he says. “Kid’s got twice the good sense in his little finger that I do in my whole body. Tom, when I grow up, I want to be just like Phillip, and you can quote me on that.”

* * *

Phillip walks into their new office just as Barnum is putting the finishing touches on his costume. The signature red coat, so lovingly retailored, raises such a wave of nostalgia that Phillip almost releases a sob. But it raises a wave of pain, too, rolling in just on the heels of the first swell. For months the top hat and cane were his. Now they are Barnum’s again. They belong to him, of course, he himself is the first to assert that, and yet…and yet his hands feel so empty.

Barnum turns, and although he looks every inch the showman, his smile is shaky. “Hey,” he says, affecting an offhand tone. “Am I late?”

“Not yet.” Phillip tries to sound equally calm and assured, but his nerves are jittering like bugs on a tuning fork. “I just came to see if you needed anything.”

“My lost youth, if you happen to see it lying around.” Barnum plucks his pristine top hat off his desk. “I didn’t sleep last night for nerves, and it’s raising hell with my focus.”

“You missed a night’s sleep over nerves? Since when does that happen?”

“Since I stopped missing sleep for worse things.” Barnum settles the hat on his head. “It’s a good trade-off, which you’ll come to understand if you live long enough. Are the others ready for our big debut?”

Even from here, they can hear the excited chatter of a packed house. “Pacing in the wings. Just waiting on the Prince of Humbug.”

“That’s me and always will be.” Barnum pauses with his cane in mid-twirl. He looks at Phillip with a strangely intent air. “And how are you feeling? No nerves on your end?”

“I don’t think I’m ready to throw up just yet, but I’ll keep you posted.”

Barnum chuckles and finishes the spin, hitching the cane high under his arm so it juts out jauntily. “Listen, I’m glad you’re here,” he says. “I wanted to have a word with my fifty-fifty partner before our first big-top show.”

The stitching on the massive circus tent is truly beautiful and causes a little hitch in Phillip’s breathing every time he sees it: _The Barnum and Bailey Circus – The Greatest Show on Earth! _But he doesn’t comment on this. Instead, he says, “And what might that be? If you can possibly confine it to one word or ten I will be well and truly shocked.”

“Oh, it’s nothing big. I just wanted to see how you felt about…” Barnum taps his fingers on the cane, then flashes an impish, nervous smile that strips a full fifteen years from his face. “I was just thinking that maybe I’ll take a powder once in a while. Take some time to watch my family grow up.” Barnum cocks his head as if appraising him. “What would you say to that, Phillip? If I ran off now and then like a railway tramp and dumped the whole damn thing in your lap?”

“I’d say it depends how far you run,” Phillip says honestly, though his heart is pounding against his ribs. Abandonment or opportunity? Which will it be this time? “And I’d say we’ll miss you.”

_Opportunity_, his heart whispers, and he knows it’s right.

Barnum nods. “You’ll miss me,” he says. “That’s probably the truth, but it ain’t the whole truth, so don’t shit me, son. Is it me or my hat you’ll miss most?”

Son. It’s the first time Barnum’s ever called him that so far as he can recall – and he would remember any other occurrences of that particular word. It lingers in Barnum’s smile long after it’s passed out of his mouth. “I’ll miss both pretty well equally,” Phillip admits at last, because you really can’t lie to those shrewd eyes. “I would never want to do this without you. God, if you knew how much I want to see you perform again…but my feet weren’t made for standing still.” He hesitates. “You know what I mean?”

“I was born knowing what you mean.” Barnum spreads his arms, and to Phillip’s delight, he sees that the man’s hands have stopped shaking. “Well, that’s over. How do I look?”

Phillip opens his mouth to give a serious answer and instead bursts out in a laugh. Strangely, this seems to be the reaction Barnum was hoping for. The corners of his eyes crinkle deeply with amusement. “You look like a showman with no sense of shame,” Phillip says bluntly. “How are you supposed to look?”

“Like a showman with no sense of shame.” Barnum lowers one of his arms and throws the other across Phillip’s red-clad shoulder. “It’s time,” he says softly. “You ready?”

And he is. He is, including the moment when Barnum hands him the hat and cane behind the stands and takes his first powder – snap, he’s gone, and Phillip finds himself in the middle of the ring with his lips on Anne’s and the Oddities whirling around them. And strangely, he’s also ready when Barnum comes back two nights later to take the show and Phillip can just sit back and soak it in. And he’s ready when it belongs to him again one night later, and then when Barnum drags him bodily into the ring the next week so they can perform together – and if he’s honest, isn’t that his favourite part? The two of them grinning at each other across the ring, Anne laughing at his side, Charity and the girls cheering in the wings? Everyone, together?

The show must go on, and it will, because there’s no greater show in the world. Sometimes it’s them on the stage and sometimes it’s their families, sometimes they indulge themselves and sometimes they sacrifice, and this is better than great. It’s good.

It’s _good_, and no one can take it away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just my personal head canon on the end of the movie. :) Man, I really love you guys for reading my random, wandering circus musings. I mean it - there should be some kind of Nobel Prize for people who encourage nameless, faceless fanfiction writers. And God bless for the Remembrance Day that has just passed - I hope it was meaningful for you.
> 
> Next - and last - chapter up Monday November 18th!


	12. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which this series finally concludes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, the last chapter of this seemingly endless series has finally arrived in the wee hours. I feel like I've been trying to birth the same baby for the past year. LOL Enjoy guys!

Phillip marries Anne in his red coat.

Getting a minister who would perform the wedding, that was the worst thing – interracial marriages are not against the law, but judging by local attitudes, they might as well be. In the end Phillip secures a clergyman who appears to be holding on to his post by his fingernails, and the man ends up performing a surprisingly touching service.

W.D. stands at Phillip’s shoulder for the ceremony, dressed in his brown suit. He tells Phillip to be faithful or he’ll kill him. Phillip says he’ll hold him to it. Both men are tearing up. Charity sequesters herself with Anne just before the ceremony; the young woman is trembling and dazzling in her lace-and-silk dress. She could never have afforded such a gorgeous dress on her own. It’s Phineas’ wedding gift, and priceless in every way. How many nights did he sit up with Anne, fretting over the design, undoing stitches that to Charity’s eyes looked perfect to do them just a little better? It’s his finest work, and Anne cries for sheer gratitude the first time she wears it.

“I wish Mama could see it,” she says, standing before the long mirror in the Barnums’ modest bedroom. “Oh, Lord, please let Mama see it, wherever she is.”

When Anne appears at the head of the aisle, her arm crooked through Phineas’, Phillip covers his face to hide his tears. Charity hears him say, under his breath but clear as day, “I don’t deserve this. My God, I don’t deserve it.”

Phineas hands Anne over, and then he pulls Phillip close, saying something into his ear. What he says, Charity never finds out. But Phillip releases Anne’s hand for a moment so he can hug Phineas; and when her husband sits down, his eyes are suspiciously bright.

He and Charity lock hands for the rest of the service.

Lettie is Anne’s maid-of-honour, and never was there a woman so transported by the honour. Caroline and Helen are the flower-girls; their sedate walk down the aisle is more like a bouncing trot, and the flowers end up pretty much everywhere. Charles is the ring-bearer, and doesn’t say a single cheeky word until the rowdy reception, where he cuts loose with unbounded glee.

The party under the big-top runs far into the wee hours. At some point Phillip and Anne slip away. Charity smiles a secret smile and remembers the nervous exhilaration of her own wedding night; the Baileys can only afford one night to themselves before returning to work, but she and Phineas didn’t even have that. They’ll make the most of it, and perhaps before long there’ll be a baby, or two, or four.

And so life goes on.

When P.T. Barnum comes home, long after she’s put the girls to bed, she’s waiting for him with a smile, her hair down around her shoulders. He has liquor on his breath, but it’s not enough to render him clumsy – Phillip asked them to put off the drinking until he and Anne left. Phineas picks her up and lays her gently in their bed, and they make slow, wordless, passionate love with nothing but their breaths and their hearts between them.

Light is just coming into the sky when Charity says against his bare chest, “You did well, Phin.”

Phineas blinks awake from his doze. Charity smiles at his confusion. “You did well,” she reaffirms, tracing the line of dark hair leading down his taut belly. He stirs, but merely draws her closer. Fifteen years ago, her touch would have been enough to set off another round of passion. But they’re older now, and much of the sweetness lies in recollection, not repetition.

“I did my best,” he says at last. “I tried.”

It’s an old refrain, and she loves and hates it in equal measure. “I know you did.” She props her chin on her hands so she can look down into his eyes. He looks back up at her. “They’re going to be very happy. And so are we. And so is the circus.”

“That’s a lot of happiness.” Phineas’ hands caress her smooth skin; a gleam of humour shines through his thoughtfulness. “Almost seems too good to be true.”

“I think we can safely say you’ve rewritten the usual rules governing that.”

He chuckles, and she’s just about to throw recollection to the wind and try for a little repetition when there’s a soft rap at the bedroom door.

She looks down at him. “Our daughters are up,” she notes. “And we haven’t slept.”

“Occupational hazard.” Phineas twines a lock of her hair around his finger as the knock is repeated. “I dream better when I’m awake.”

Those are the best dreams, anyway: the ones you don't wake up from, but wake up to. Sleepwalking on a tightrope, she thinks, and smiles because it's so beautifully absurd and it works.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all your comments and support! What a wild ride this series has been, at least from a writing perspective - and now I'm going to go to bed and sleep it off. XD Much love to you guys!!


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